The Secret of the Lost
by Miss Eureka Destiny
Summary: The classic girl-winds-up-in-Middle Earth fic as you've never heard it before. Unbeknownst to Middle Earth, on the other side of Arda, is secretly a "modern" country, complete with electricity and 21rst century culture. CHAPTER 3 UP.
1. Preface and Prologue

**IMPORTANT: READ THIS FIRST******

**Preface**

This is an alternate universe fanfiction which explores the idea of there being a hidden, secret country in Tolkien's world that was modernized, with electricity, democracy, and Twenty-first Century culture. The inspiration for this fic was all the stories everyone was writing about a character from our world somehow time-traveling back to Middle Earth. I opted to bring Middle Earth to us instead by creating a secret continent on the other side of the world which hosted a modern-day country-and yes, don't laugh, it is the USA, but a considerably different version of the USA. Obviously, people didn't immigrate to this America from anywhere as it is the only country other than Middle Earth. For the same reason, many historical wars and political dealings would not exist. Things like the mafia would probably still exist but in greatly reduced form. Even many books, movies, and phrases would have no basis in reality, such as, for instance, any movie that involved a trip across the border to another country. I have contrived some clever ways to play this scenario, however, that would still safeguard the existence of America's distinct "melting pot" culture and also, some important figures of international history-wait and see. The main idea is that we are secret from the rest of Arda-we know all about Middle Earth and moniter it with satellites but the people there have no remotely conceived idea about us. To us, Middle Earth, being so primitive, is a trivial place not worth our concern, like as a wild desert island. Actually, our government forbids a relationship with Middle Earth on the basis of both that and its unpredictable alien races and magic. That's how we manage to have a modern army in the absence of other modern nations-it is stationed around our homeland to keep us in and outsiders out. It will be a weird concept, but I think it will be fun. What will happen in the story, of course, is an incident which forces us to visit Middle Earth. That will be enjoyable to write, with people wondering where on earth we came from and whether or not we'll use our strange powers of technology to help them in their war with Sauron, which we deem is none of our business. I'm planning to have us enter onto the scene at the opening of TTT.

A large theme of my story will be Tolkien's concept of a seer. I have always been fascinated by Tolkien's creation of human beings who had the gift of prophecy. Whenever an Elf saw the future, it was always with the aid of some outside magical object they had created, such as a ring of power or Galadriel's mirror. (Thus, the scene in ROTK where Arwen has a vision is NOT in the book and in Tolkien's world would not even be possible.) This seer thing seems to have been a mysterious gift which ran in Men.

Now in my story, there is a girl who is a seer and because Arwen's future-seeing bit has diminished her intended uniqueness, I will now have to give her something else special to restore a character balance. Thus, I am going to bestow on her a great and special kind of physical beauty which will not, overall, equal Arwen's or Galadriel's, but will be greater than what a mortal woman should be allowed to possess. I was never originally going to do this, but since Arwen has so atrociously diminished her character, I have no recourse other than to compensate by somewhat diminishing Arwen's. At least, Tolkien's world does have some serious anomalies surrounding Men anyway; in **The Hobbit, **remember, there were Men who could change into bears and lived several hundred years, all of this with no offered explanation. Therefore, if I cover this woman's beauty with a prophecy that she was the most beautiful of Iluvatar's mortal creatures or something along those lines, with everything else that was changed in the movie version, it shouldn't be too much of a stretch from acceptable reality. Anyway, I see the seers as sort of being like Iluvatar's chosen messengers, revealing what his predestined plans were for Arda-you know, like his prophets. Thus, this girl will have a big part to play in the story.

It is important to know that I make a big difference between whether a fanfiction takes place in the book world or in the movie world. This fic takes place in the movie world of LOTR, and therefore, all events are subject to Peter Jackson's plot changes. There is one major element of my plot which is a direct result of this fact:

In the book, Faramir and Eowyn's romance was one of my favorite parts of the story. I loved how Faramir, the noble man who had learned to deal with his own emotional pain, rescued a cold and nearly cynical Eowyn from the iciness that had imprisoned her life. He defrosted her and brought her comfort, joy, and love. (Sigh) What a great story.

The movie version thus sorely disappointed me. Gone was the noble Faramir of Tolkien's original writing. What we got instead was his brother reincarnate, only slightly wiser. Faramir has also not really learned how to responsibly deal with his own emotional anguishes. At a verbal wound from his father, he led hundreds of men on a suicide mission against the counsel of Gandalf. Basically, he was hurt, and so his reaction was to do something that was not only foolish, but careless with other people's lives, merely to please his father. Thus, Faramir is not really in a position to save anyone from their personal issues as he needs to be saved from his own.

Eowyn, in the movie version, is also not so much in need of saving anyway. Contrary to her personality in the book, she is not really what I would call cold, just different from other women in that she is serious about fighting. Actually, the movie has lots of scenes which show her as being quite sensitive and warm. Her romantic interest in Aragorn is obviously genuine, more than merely admiration or a simple selfish desire to be a queen. She even seems a little insecure at times whereas the book says the first time in her life that she ever doubted herself came when she met Faramir. I guess the changes were made to cause people to like her character as the heroine, but really she deviates from Tolkien's Eowyn considerably.

So, after watching TTT, I was prepared for a disappointment in their romance in ROTK; but then, they didn't even show it at all!!! Why have the big romantic buildup between Eowyn and Aragorn if they weren't going to conclude it with Eowyn and Faramir's relationship? Now it just looks like a sad ending of unrequited love for poor Eowyn! (Like two people standing side by side and smiling at the coronation of their ruler means anything.) I suppose the scenes between them were deleted and will be included in the extended edition, but the fact that they were cut at all obviously means that they weren't very important to the filmmakers. With that attitude, it wouldn't surprise me if they even changed the concept around and had Eowyn rescue Faramir. Even, if they didn't change it, however, it is no longer believable to me. In my mind, the characters of a story are more important than the plot because the plot only exists at their actions, which, like in real life, spring from their personalities and beliefs. Thus, even if Faramir and Eowyn perform the same actions in the movie as in the book, their individual characters have not constituted them, and the whole idea seems forced, only transpiring for the basest sense of storyline accuracy. For me, therefore, the whole tale between them is irreparably ruined.

For awhile, I was quite upset about this entire situation; but then, I decided to embrace it with a remedy. In my story, I would introduce an original character who was really a mirror image of Tolkien's Faramir in the book-basically, the _real_ Faramir under the guise of a different name. He and Eowyn would fall in love and thus somewhat repair the character storyline-but then, that left the movie Faramir as a new problem. What to do?

I finally decided I would create another original character to be with Faramir; however, she could not be a mirror version of book Eowyn because movie Faramir wasn't qualified to rescue her and, besides, she and movie Eowyn would still have too many things in common. Thus, I opted to go a different road.

In the book, one of my favorite characters was Goldberry, the River Daughter. She was so pretty and enchanting and full of joy, not really like an Elf, but more like a little Faerie, a Pixie, if you will-and she filled everyone around her with joy too. ("Frodo felt his heart moved by a strange joy he did not understand. He stood under a spell as he had in listening to elvish singing, yet it was different. Less keen and lofty was the delight but deeper and nearer to the mortal heart.") What a uniquely mysterious character! Since I missed her appearance in the movie storyline, I chose to make Faramir's new romantic interest, not totally by any means, but a little, like her. The joy she exudes can comfort his pain and heal his heart-so she will save him. All in all, however, she is not just a mirror image of Goldberry; though they share some attributes, she will be an original character with a distinct personality. At any rate, I feel that even if the names change, it is more important that Faramir and Eowyn be with the person who maintains more of the same personality as in the book, and I am well pleased with this literary scheme.

On that note, there isn't really much left to say about this fic, other than credit goes to my younger sister for coining the term "Midling", which is the name we Americans over here in the secret modern country give to any person residing in the Middle Earth, and that, I claim the original name "Mirathil" for the name of one of my female "Midling" characters. This fanfiction is rated **PG-13** for violence and mature themes. I hope you will take some time to read and review it!!!!

P.S. In the future, there will be a web page for this fanfiction which will post images and song lyrics that go with it. It will be updated along with the story. When I have created this site, and each successive time I update it, I will let you know in an Author's Note at the beginning of a story chapter.

P.S.S. I sometimes communicate with my readers via my author bio. If a story has not been updated after a considerable length of time, the reason why will more than likely be given on that page.

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own Tolkien or Arda or Middle Earth. Aside from the original characters of this story, it all belongs to J.R.R. and Christopher. I don't own the USA or any historical figures mentioned herein either. I make no profit off this composition other than my own enjoyment, so please don't send me to Copyright Row in a federal penitentiary.

**IMPORTANT: Read this first.**

**Author's Notes: **O.K. In the first place, if you haven't read the preface, turn your browser right around and do so before continuing. I write those things for a reason: so that people won't get confused by the story content. The preface eliminates a lot of questions you might have for me in a review by giving the answers in the beginning. It also often makes my cases for some of the fic's plot elements, giving the explanation for why I am writing a certain part of the story in a way you may question. Anyway, it's not just a preview or summary, and it's definitely beneficial for you to take a look at it.

To let you know, some of the sources for the content of this prologue come from various chapters of **The Silmarillion**. If you're curious as to where I got some stuff, or how much is Tolkien and how much is me, just ask me in a review or e-mail. Also, in this prologue, there is a reality of Tolkien's world that I've had to disallow: In **The Silmarilllion, **it is told that the Valar created the sun and the moon, and that what these two celestial bodies actually were, were vessels steered by appointed Ainur. These light-bearing vessels issued from Valinor, and were actually small enough to land back on Valinor at the close of their cycle to let their pilots take a rest. Well, obviously, if American history and modern science are brought into the environment of Tolkien's originally conceived Arda, this reality for the sun and moon is utterly impossible and incoherent. We landed on the moon; it's no little vessel with some supernatural pilot, it's like a little planet. The sun, which is thousands of times huger than the earth, touching down for a rest is unspeakably ridiculous. Besides, if they spent part of their cycle in Valinor, then there would be a time here on Earth when it seemed to us that the sun and the moon disappeared from our reality, which they would, traveling along the Straight Path into the secret dimension where Valinor is hidden from humanity. But, of course, we know from our telescopes that the sun and the moon are always physically present and accounted for; and, of course, we also have seen that the sun is stationary while _the earth_ is the "traveling vessel". Thus, for this fanfiction, I will simply have to pretend that Tolkien never wrote his fantasy about the origin of the sun and the moon-and I don't like to have to do that to his writing, but I think most of you will agree that, in this extreme case, there really isn't much choice. Oh well. (I suppose that, in this altered version of Tolkien's world, it would have been Iluvatar who created the sun and the moon-I mean, the Valar worked on making the earth for millennia; how many eons would it have taken them to make the sun?

Would they have made all the other planets too? Why? In Tolkien's day, astronomy wasn't super-common knowledge, so his fantasy ideas went over; but, in more educated 2004, this scenario simply doesn't make sense and doesn't work; so, let's just assume it was God Who created the sun, moon, and remaining solar system.) Another note on the sun and the moon: Tolkien authored that, upon their birth, the moon rose before the sun. This circumstance was, again, tied up with the idea of the two bodies being magical vessels; so, because this fanfiction does not incorporate that concept, I have also had to alter that sequence of events and caused the sun to rise first. This is the movie universe, though, and not the book universe; and besides, the origin of the sun and the moon

really isn't important to the plot of LOTR or this fanfiction anyway. I just thought that perhaps, if you were familiar with Tolkien's writing on the subject, you might appreciate an explanation as to why I was not true to that aspect of his reality. One last thing: In his works, Tolkien often makes a note of capitalizing the words "time", "earth", and "men"; so, I will follow suit. (That is, I'm being _intentionally_ grammatically incorrect.)

You will also notice I have rather altered the course of American history. Basically, what I have tried to do is incorporate various elements of _world_ history into ours in order to preserve the present reality and culture that we have in the USA. I also had to throw in a few fantasy elements to make this concept work within Tolkien's Arda. Western hemisphere geography has taken a pretty big hit too, but, oh well, at least I saved the rainforest. South America is not a continent, just a tiny little region of land to the south of us-I just barely left it there because later on, my story really does need the rainforest to exist. Canada is gone all together, along with Mexico.

One challenge was the explanation for the rise of modern culture. In the real world, things like democracy and women's lib. arose because of abuse and injustice. In Tolkien's world, however, people, quite frankly, are generally nicer. Sure, there was some abuse by kings and macho men, but nothing so widespread as real history-Middle Earth was more like Camelot than the real Middle Ages. Thus, why would our people be different? What would have made our abuse so severe that we invented modern culture? I tried to come up with a fantasy reason in Staves VI and VII; I'd sure appreciate some feedback on it.

This prologue possesses two main themes: Men in general and the Men who founded our anomalous modern country. I played around a little with guessing at some of what Morgoth may have done to twist Men in the beginning. Please tell me what you think.

On seers: As stated in the foreword, I have played them up; however, I do have selections of Tolkien's writings which can serve to demonstrate their true importance in his world. At the moment, however, I would prefer not to quote them, as doing so would spoil certain elements of surprise to be later contained within my story.

By the way, I have an interesting idea. When I read a fanfiction, I'm always impatient for the next chapter. I want to know what happens next! Well, my idea is to post just a tiny little preview at the end of each chapter for the next one. I've done that on this one-do you like that idea? Incidentally, I try to update every one to two weeks. Considering how long my chapters are, I think that's a pretty fair deal. In the case that it would be a longer length of time than that, I would let you know in an author's note.

O.K., so all that said…I talk to reviewers in the ending Author's Notes. And the preview for the next chapter is posted right before that. Also, I try to update every 1-2 weeks.

Apology: In the future, my author's notes won't be so painfully long.

Anyway, please read and review!!!

**(Miss) Eureka Destiny**

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All stories have a beginning. The story that I am about to tell may be said to have begun when, ages ago, the brilliant, nurturing sun, which to us is synonymous with life and existence, rose, for the very first time, to give its light. That strange, singular moment in Time was Fate's turning point for History-and, in years that lay far to the future, when countless ages had waxed and, having grown old, long since passed away, it would be said that it changed the world.

**I**

As is known to all, the vast and beautiful world we inhabit was, at the Dawn of Time, first brought into being by the One, Eru Iluvatar-the High Father, and Lord God of All. Setting forth His power, he fashioned the great planet which humanity calls "Earth", but which was first named by the Ancient People "Arda". Of course, History tells of the early stages of this created world: Legend tells us of the descent of fifteen high and mighty angelic beings onto this planet, to rule and order it in the name of the One. Various ancient myths speak of the fall of the greatest of this number into darkness and his sworn oath to one day reign in unending evil over all created life, thus revealing to knowledge the primeval origin of the struggle between Good and Evil. In books of archaic lore, words are written of the startling awakening on this earth of a foreign race of antiquity, an enigmatic alien people with strange abilities of supernatural power, who practiced magic and were, themselves, creatures of divinity, beings whose bodies never grew old or died, but possessed immortality, invincible even to disease. Whispers of great wars, of holy dwelling places beyond the sea, of mysterious objects of sorcery and mystical quests of peril and enchantment, come down to us through the years from the quondam past.

Among all of these fantastic tales of yore, hovever, the things which are perhaps most clearly understood by our people are these: that firstly, this planet, in that era, was held to be composed of two great continents-designated as "Valinor" and "Middle Earth", the latter laying to the east of the first-and secondly, the aforementioned Ancient People, whose race the world has since recognized in formal name as "the Eldar" or "the Elves", had issued from their abiding place on the land mass of Valinor to that of Middle Earth in the purpose of war with the legendary fallen angelic being of ancient yore, whom they named "Melkor" or "Morgoth" or simply "The Dark Lord". Thus, within the circles of this world, the most ancient histories known to Man relate tales of the dark horror that sought to swallow all the world in its shadow and the countless wars that were waged between its dread hosts-demons, dragons, and goblins or "Orcs"- and the high people of the immortal Eldar; and one thing more, a characteristic to us most strange, is recorded of the primeval world of ages past-that, since its creation, the planet of earth, the same that we know and tread upon, had never before been touched by the rays of the sun, nor by those of the moon, but had, for the long duration of the dominion of the Elves, lain under an eternal blanket of night whose shadow was pierced only by the gleaming sea of the ancient stars which, even in the weary day of this now changed world, still shine with the same immutable life and beauty down upon this mysterious earth. Doubtless, this relation seems a thing fantastic and unbelievable to those who have never walked in a world apart from the sight of the golden sun and the ivory moon; yet, in the far distant past, even was it so for all those who, since the Dawn of Time, had dwelt upon the face of the earth.

Thus, it can be imagined what were the reactions of the world's inhabitants when, on a certain time, the dark western sky was suddenly split by a low line of red and yellow light. Startled out of their common tasks of life, the Elder Children of the earth threw their gazes to the heavens in speechless astonishment as far off in the distant West, the strange golden light continued to spread. Those who witnessed that day, the first day, will never forget the awe which utterly possessed the world in that moment in time, when, with a glory before unparalleled, a mysterious auric circle slowly peeked up in solitude over the edge of the ancient world called Arda, which for all its numbered centuries, had as yet known only the gentle glimmer of starlight under a dome of ebony.

With numerous fearful gasps and amid countless joined cries of "What is it?!", the Eldar gawked long at the miraculous change they beheld occurring both in the sky and in the world about them. As the bizarre wheel of light progressed in its ascent above the horizon, it gained intensity of brightness, until all were forced to turn their eyes away from its substance, lest they be blinded-while, all the time, the brilliance emanating from the fiery sphere stretched and spread ever further throughout creation, flooding the sky, glistening on the water, filling the spaces under heaven, until finally all the world was illuminated under its path and the air was expanded with a soft swelling of warmth that seemed to breathe a new life into all that lay in existence.

For a few moments, a hushed silence descended upon the ranks of the Firstborn. They peered out over the wide sea, sparkling with a glassy, golden sheen; they turned their eyes to the land, wrapped in dazzling hues of vibrant color where aforetime had been the universal enshroudment of a sea of silver-grey; they beheld their kindred, looking one upon the other, as fairer than had before been visible, their hair shimmering in the light, their faces glowing 'neath the halation of the heavens; and, last of all, they gazed in startled amazement upward into the sky, newly tainted a light blue and adorned with great masses of shining white that reflected the border of a golden-fringed horizon-and then, with widened eyes and pounding heartbeats, an enraptured light was kindled in their fair faces, and they were filled with wonder and delight! Here was a joy unspeakable! The world revealed forth in light so great and overpowering cast, as it seemed, a veil of glory and beauty over all created things; and far off to the north, the fell creatures of Morgoth, in the midst of battle with their foes, cowered down from the sky in writhing terror and fled in anguish from the fields down into the deep bowels of the earth, desperate to escape the hideous radiance which blinded their eyes and seared their flesh.

As the Elves of the West, beholding the many monsters of their great enemy scatter in chaos before the bright dawn, sent up a loud cry of victory, the servants of Morgoth scrambled to the dark throne of their master in great panic and alarm. "Great Lord!" cried the chieftain of a host of evil spirits. "There is a great light in the sky come out of the West, a terrible sphere of flame that devours all the world in its radiance! The Orcs could not endure its touch, and even the demons and fell beasts of thy service cringed beneath its power! It ascends an invisible path through the heavens, climbing ever higher, its light and warmth emanating with corresponding increase of strength and potency and causing our forces ever greater harm the longer they endeavor to remain beneath its all-consuming brilliance! What counsel are we to take, Sovereign Master? If the dread wheel of light remain, then surely our foes will triumph over us and thy realm pass into ash and dust! Is there no manner in which the great fire of heaven may be resisted by your servants?"

With a deathly expulsion of darkness and dread aura of power, the Great Enemy of the World, Melkor Morgoth, all at once arose in great haste from his lofty throne, an expression of what appeared to be acute anxiety suddenly aroused in his cruel face. "You are sure of this?" he inquired fervently. Deep underground, in the fastness of his terrible stronghold of Thangorodrim, the Dark Lord had not witnessed the bright dawn over the world, and he was wont to doubt the report of his servant. "It is not a trick of sorcery by the Eldar- you clearly perceived that this great light had life of its own?" he demanded.

"Without doubt, my Lord!" returned the spirit. "This overpowering miracle is no cunning work of the Eldalie! Master, what of the war? This horror shall-Master?"

The desperate speech of the terrified spirit was cut off by the hurried descent of his Lord down the broad steps of his exalted pedestal and headlong exit from the throne room. Like a black wind, his presence passed in haste through the countless, unfathomable mazes of his subterranean halls, until his great strides reached a great, dimly lit stair. Then, up and up, Morgoth rushed to the highest towers of Thanagorodrim where a view could be had of the outside world. There was small chance his servant could be false in his message, but in a matter this great, no uncertainty could be afforded. Reaching the pinnacle of his stronghold, the Dark Lord anxiously peered out of a high window that overlooked the battlefield below; and over the dismal plains of shadow that stretched before his realm, he beheld for himself the radiant golden glow, which increased in intensity the farther from his domain of darkness one turned their eyes. Far beneath him, the Elves were rejoicing in the new light, making songs of merriment and dances of mirth. With a somber countenance, the Dark Lord gazed long upon the brightening world, seeming to observe the Eldar in their revelry; but, in truth, he was lost deep in his own dark thought, seeing nothing but the phantoms and subtleties of his innermost mind's activity. "So," he murmured in a voice low and foreboding. In a slow motion, he focused his gaze directly into the brilliant sphere of light that hung in glory within the spacious sky, blinding though it was. "At last."

**II**

Among the dimly lit shadows of Thangorodrim's cavernous throne room, the many servants of Morgoth were gathered together in raucous debate. With strident outbursts and blatant cries, their fulminating arguments concerning the course of action which should be taken against the new light of the sky rose ever higher and louder throughout the hall.

"SILENCE!" an unfathomably deep voice suddenly boomed amidst the clamor.

A frigid terror gripped the heart of every perverse creature in the chamber as instantly, the cacophony died. Within the huge archway of stone that opened into the throne room stood the returned Dark Lord, his hard face glowering down on the multiple rings of fell beings beneath him. With a universal shiver of fear, the numerous Orcs and demons quickly straightened themselves to an obeisant stance of attention, their gazes cast to the obsidian floor.

As soon as he held his servants' proper, silent respect, Morgoth directed his piercing countenance to the spirit who had first addressed him, crossing his broad arms in a stance of careful consideration. "The great light of the heavens, the bright circle of fire-how long hence has passed since it first strode over your heads?" he inquired in a deep tone of fervent apprehension.

The scrutinized demon shuddered under the burning intensity of his master's gaze. "It arose in majesty out of the western sky not one brief hour ago, and the Children of the One hailed to see it! Under its light, they drove us in disgrace back to these halls, and still their songs of victory may be heard through the walls! Master, what is thy will in this matter? Surely, we can not return to meet our foes in battle with this abhorrent brilliance all about us?"

Lifting his eyes from the tremulous demon, Morgoth spoke thoughtfully, his attention fixed on a secret contemplation of his own mind. "A mere hour-that is well."

His many servants glanced one to the other in a silent state of perplexion. They cringed as a heavy, oppressive darkness seemed to diffuse throughout the hall, seeping out from their master's brooding state of mind.

With a strange light in his eyes, Morgoth evenly addressed the flustered ranks of his minions. "Calm yourselves. A span of twelve hours hence, and this "overpowering miracle", as you name it, will diminish and pass away to naught-and while truly, in another twelve hour span it shall issue forth again, for that time of waiting, there shall lay renewed darkness over all this land, though ever on it will now falter, assaulted by the ivory glow of a second circle of light. Nonetheless, this second-coming light's power is weak beside that of the first, and in that time, our counsels and movements henceforth shall be. But look you all-in days following, as the periodic waning of darkness draws nigh, keep a watch for slow-waking light in the eastern sky; the golden circle hails its path from the West once only, as a sign."

The one demon chieftain peered up at his lord with slowly-widening eyes. "Master," he spoke in hushed bewilderment, "_knew_ you that this terror was approaching?"

With what could almost have been called a smirk, the Dark Lord re-lowered his gaze to the hideous multitudes of his servants. "Knew I?" he mocked in a voice swollen with sarcasm. His creatures of servitude blinked, suddenly possessed by a feeling of great disquiet. With a low laugh which rumbled like an ominous roll of thunder throughout the spacious chamber, the towering Vala strode across the ebony floor to re-mount the high steps to his throne, heedless of the many throngs of his servants that fearfully stepped aside to make way for his path. Settling into his great marble chair, he briefly looked back over the discomposed and dismayed faces of his legions. A cruel, foreboding smile slowly spread across his lips as he spoke in a tone grim and terrible. "Since ever Time began, I have been awaiting it."

The same demon captain, unnerved by his master's seemingly deranged countenance and odd words, swallowed with uncertainty. "My Lord-

With a hideous rumble, Morgoth laughed again, more potently this time, slaying with dread the words on his servant's tongue. Turning his attention to the lofty ceiling of the chamber, several stories above which the underground ceased and the Eldar had their encampment under the open air, the Dark Lord tilted his head, listening intently. Faintly discernible through the alpine roof of stone, was the fair sound of a myriad of Elvish voices, lifting in high, clear tones mirthful songs of joy which praised victorious battle and blessed the appearance of the brilliant new light.

With a sardonic expression, swaying his head side to side in rhythm with the Elvish melodies, Morgoth leered at the cheerful music. "Yes, yes, sing on Quendi. It delights you, does it not, the new light? When it first arose, did it thrill you? Were you awestruck, then lovestruck? Do you adore it, do you take pleasure in its warm touch on your flesh, joy in its dazzling beauty? Your beauty-loving eyes drink it in, drink in its radiance and glory. Oh yes, you deem its bright gold _very _beautiful, _very_ lovely indeed, and how timely to aid you in your need. Sing on, merry Eldar, and praise it-PRAISE THE BRIGHT COMING OF THE SUN!" he suddenly taunted in a loud jeer, his reverberating laughter chilling the soul of every fell creature in the wide hall. "The high Eldalie, so foolishly proud in your lofty race, you would know so little," he scoffed. His lips forming a cruel smile, Morgoth lowered his tone to an ominous murmur. "The appearance of this wondrous light you so love and bless marks, not the dawn of your people's fortune, as your fair songs tell, but its end. The beautiful light of the sky you praise as your deliverance is, in truth, the symbol of your doom; the luminescence which is now your greatest joy will come to be the cruel author of your kindred's deepest grief; and, in the fullness of time, the shining sphere of fire, that you pledge your innocent hearts' love to, will betray you, down into ruin and a darkness that will surpass the one you walked in 'ere it came. For indeed, the great circle of gold arises in declaration of an awesome power and an unparalleled greatness-but it is not yours. No-pitiable people, it is not for you, not for the high princes and proud queens of the Eldalie, that the mighty sun has risen."

With widened eyes, the many creatures in the throne room slowly lifted their gazes upward to the heights of the cavern's roof. "_The sun_?" they tremulously whispered.

In a swift motion, Morgoth clapped his hands, his scrutiny fixed on the foul masses before him. "Bring forth my stealthiest spirits and swiftest beasts," he ordered. "There is an errand of great urgence which must be seen to."

A Balrog lieutenant blinked, his brow furrowed with confusion. "But, my Lord, those of your servants with the most skill and subtlety are in fast labor on the devices of thy war-

"Their minds may refresh themselves in the neglect of their duties for a time," Morgoth sharply replied. "There is a matter arisen which my attention is directed to before all else; and I will suffer no insurgence of this counsel," he spoke in a low, dangerous tone, coldly eying the numerous throngs of his servants, who shuddered under his glaring gaze and drew themselves to a rigid posture of respect. "Now, my swiftest and most cunning servants-summon them immediately!"

That night, only a few brief hours after the red-gold light of the first sunset had faded beneath the horizon, the Dark Lord of Middle Earth stood upon the open summit of Thangorodrim before a large gathering of dreadful spirits and fell winged creatures of darkness. "Scour all the land!" he shouted. "Search far and wide, over field and forest, seek high and low, from mountain to dell! Let your swift flight take you to the corners of East, South, North, and West, and cease never to rest or to hunt for any other save your sworn prey! Across all of Middle Earth, pursue your quest! The first of you that brings me word of my quarry shall have, henceforth, the highest honor and rank which may be bestowed among those who perform such acts of spying in my service! NOW GO!" he commanded. "GO FORTH IN ALL HASTE AND SEEK OUT THAT WHICH HAS BEEN INSTRUCTED TO YOU!"

At their master's bidding, the many fell creatures, amidst a myriad of bloodcurdling shrieks and hideous rushing of wings, raised off the rocky platform and speedily departed into the far reaches of the night sky, each one eager to be the favored messenger who would first return with tidings of their lord's desire. From the concealing shadow of an overhanging ledge of rock, a tall, ominous figure watched in unison with the Dark Lord the rapidly fading line of winged monsters against the horizon. "Master," he spoke, "do you believe tidings of this matter will arrive soon?"

"That can only be hoped for, Sauron," Morgoth replied. "The knowledge of location in these affairs is not grasped by even the ones across the sea…" Here Morgoth spoke with a voice hard and bitter, in hateful remembrance of his ancient enemies of might. "However," he evenly continued, "My agents will move with a terrible swiftness, and Middle Earth is not so vast that it is beyond thought. I hold that, 'ere long, a message shall indeed be brought back to my ears of that which I seek-and, in that hour, the doom of the Quendi shall be all but full wrought," he finished with a sinister smile, his gaze hovering pleasurably over the last distantly vanishing streak of his embarked minions.

With the deepest air of curiosity, Sauron stepped out from the veiling shadow, emerging into the view of sight. "My Lord," he inquired intrusively, "wilt thou now at length and last share thy secret thought with me, the foremost servant of Morgoth the Sovereign? I implore you, Master, reveal to me-what is it that you seek?"

With a spine-tingling chuckle, the Dark Lord slowly turned to face his inquisitive servant. Meeting his gaze, he leisurely folded his arms in a self-pleased stance as his twisted lips steadily spread in a chillingly evil smile.

**III**

_There is warmth._

The thought suddenly formed in his mind, like a small water droplet which suddenly condenses out of a hazy mist. He was aware of it; he felt its substance, its essence, seeping into his skin. Painfully sensitive, he slightly shivered under its numbing touch.

_There is noise._

Out of silence, a low, soft rushing faintly pricked his ears; the next moment, he felt a mild coolness sweep over his skin and a gentle force tussle his hair. Then, a steady, quiet bubbling slowly began to build inside his hearing. All at once, right after, a shrill, wavering pitch broke across the smooth, continuous sounds; and then, the single high note seemed to be joined on all sides by countless others, until the piping tones were melted together into a myriad of rippling, treble melodies, swelling throughout the entire range of his hearing, which suddenly exploded open like a flower bursting into bloom.

_There is softness._

He sensed a cool, loose substance on his back, on his neck, his arms, his legs, his hair. It pushed firmly against him, yet it was soft; gently, it tickled his skin, now and then, quietly rustling with the return of the mysterious rushing sound. Ever more keenly, he felt its supporting presence and registered its unpredictable shifting beneath the cool, periodic force of passing movement.

_There is scent._

Strange sensations began to awaken inside his nose. Deep, rich odors wafted into his nostrils, carrying a feeling of tingling energy with them. Others, sweetly strong, floated about with a sense of calm and delight. Still others, musky but mild, hung over him with a steady atmosphere of age and maturity.

_There is movement._

Gently, he sniffed in mild reaction to the bizarre impressions occurring within the space of his nose; then, all at once, he reeled in shock as an overwhelming rush of air suddenly flooded through his nostrils and swept down his throat, filling him up inside. With an acute gasp of agony, his chest rose sharply into the air and then, abruptly collapsed again as the air relinquished in the same manner back out of him. Only a moment after, again the air poured into him with the same forceful intensity and then back out again-and over and over again. The more times the action was repeated, however, the more greatly the pain of it was diminished; until at last, the air was easily flowing in and out of his lungs, his chest gently rising and falling.

Soon, other strange sensations began to awaken within him. A periodic thumping began to sound in his ears. With strong drive, a deluge of liquid started to rush to every part of his body, shocking and warming his skin. His flesh tingled from the mounting warmth inside and outside him, trembling with the ceaseless gusts of cool air that persisted in rustling his hair, perpetrating a war between heat and cold. His ears pounded with the growing volume and assortment of sounds that continued to swell around him. On and on, countless strange scents poured into his nose to the point of irritation.

Then, suddenly, he was aware of a mild discomfort; gently, his eyelids began to twitch. The heavy, all-pervading darkness enwrapping his reality all at once seemed thinly penetrated. As the pinpointed aggravation increased, dozens of thoughts began to sporadically race through his mind, like suddenly birthed, ever-widening ripples across the waters of a long still pool. His flesh trembled, tingling and itching, from the numerous bizarre activities swirling beneath it. Louder and louder, the repetitive thumping pounded in his ears, harder and harder, the warming fluid rushed through his frame. With a sudden, slight motion, his fingers began to grope along the ground, grope with uncertainty in the darkness that still enshrouded him. More and more, however, the darkness seemed to be melting, evaporating, lifting away its heavy touch, as the thoughts of his mind came stronger and stronger, and swifter and deeper. Then, his eyelids violently quivering, the one thought sprang suddenly into his consciousness.

_There is light…_

In a single, rapid motion, his eyes snapped open, the enveloping darkness scattering from around his body. All at once, an abundance of light flooded into his upturned orbs, blinding his vision. His pupils shrinking to pinpoints, a startled gasp of pain ripped from his throat as he squeezed his eyelids shut again, flinging his hands over his face. Then, a few moments later, he hesitantly withdrew his hands and, again, slowly lifted his eyelids open, this time partway. Gradually, his vision adjusted to the incoming brilliance, until finally, he was able to raise his lids completely. Blue met his gaze-blue broken by various patches of white.

Swallowing in confusion, he turned over onto his stomach and then, felt his hand suddenly submerged in something cold. With a start, he withdrew his hand and quickly pulled himself up onto his knees. Lifting his hand up to his face, his brow furrowed in puzzlement as he beheld several tiny spheres of a cool, clear substance clinging to his skin. Looking past his fingers, he then noticed, directly before him, a wide expanse of blue, sparkling and changing from moment to moment. Curiously, he leaned over its surface; and there, wavering with the flowing blue, was a bizarre image at the sight of which he abruptly started in astoundment.

Within the glassy ripples, a strange creature existed. Its skin was a fair, ruddy-tinted tone, but its wavy hair was a rich dark brown. Brown also were its startled eyes, gazing inquisitively up at him. As the kneeling observer opened his mouth in astonishment, the odd creature below him did likewise. Tilting his head, he discovered that that action also was repeated back to him. Then, as he intently peered into the creature's face, his eyes began to widen in gradual realization. Slowly, he lifted his hands to his face, his fingers hesitantly lighting on its flesh as, with amazement, he scrutinized the rippling image.

Suddenly, an icy hand firmly gripped his shoulder from behind, its long nails digging into his flesh. With a gasp, he wheeled around, a fierce light kindled within his eyes as he ripped the clinging fingers off of his skin, roughly grabbing the cold claw just above its wrist-but it wasn't a claw. It was a hand, like his own, only smaller and more delicate-and softer. With a startled blink, his gaze fell on the sharp talons to discover that they were merely fingernails, identical to his own, except that they were longer and glistened with a purer, brighter sheen of white.

Astonished, he raised his head to the creature in his grasp. A strange face met his gaze-like his own it was and yet not so. Its features matched those of the creature's he had just beheld; but they were more thinly formed, more delicately shaped. The new creature's skin, also, was smoother and possessed of more color while its large eyes, bordered by thicker, longer lashes, were a striking deep blue. With great abundance and glossy shimmer, its pale golden hair flowed exceedingly long, rippling all the way to its hips. Its slender frame, also, was of different shape, curving in an odd way along the trunk and blossoming forward in two firm mounds at the chest. Everything about the new creature seemed to be an exaggeration of himself, an image of the same possessed characteristics, only softer and finer-_and fairer._ Suddenly, with a touch of mystery, it seemed to him that, of all the new wonders he had just beheld, it was the fairest.

The lovely creature trembled in his fast grip, its large blue orbs full of fear. With widened eyes, he slowly released its delicate hand, feeling his breath catch in a strange way in his throat. The fair being turned in haste to depart, but with a swift motion, he again reached out and caught its hand, only gently this time. Slowly, the creature turned its head back to meet his gaze. Its full crimson lips softly parted as, with deep acquisitiveness, it studied him.

Suddenly, a shrill note, accompanied by a soft rushing, sounded as a strange winged creature swooped down very near to them and then, just as rapidly soared back up again, in the process lightly brushing their heads. The fair being beside him let out a high-pitched shriek of fear and lunged forward into his chest, again clinging to his frame. On some strange instinct, he automatically drew his arms around the creature's slender frame, softly stroking its silky golden hair. Hesitantly, it glanced up at him, its quivering eyes uncertain. For some odd reason, an enormous feeling of happiness seemed all at once to overtake him, and he smiled down at the nervous being in his embrace. Slowly blinking, it held his gaze; then, shyly, it smiled back, its large eyes lighting up with a joyful sparkle.

His smile widening, he happened to look past the fair creature; and suddenly, his expression was changed from contentment to astonishment. With a confused blink, the lovely being in his arms also turned its head to the space behind them; then, it started as well. There before them, lying upon the green grass, were dozens and dozens of beings like themselves, of all different colorings and traits, each one still and silent with serenely shut eyelids. Swallowing in wonder, they gazed out over the sleeping multitude-and then, something else caught both of their eyes.

Majestically hanging at a low point in the sky was what appeared to be a great circle of red-golden light. With overpowering radiance, it cast a brilliant glow over everything it touched; and both creatures now realized that this object was the source of the mysterious light which had awakened them. Standing together, they stared out into the western sky in awe and wonder; and then, their gazes returned to the slumbering mass before them as, one by one, being touched by the circle's golden rays, they each slowly began to stir and their quivering eyelids gently lift open to discover the world.

**IV**

Thus, in a far eastern valley which the Eldar remember as _Hildorien_, was a new race of beings awoken in the world of Arda. Upon their rising, all together they beheld with wonder the bright sun above them and the beautiful earth around them; and for their leaders, they took those related two of their number who had first arisen. As days went by, they slowly established a primitive form of dwelling within the secluded valley. They proved to be an extremely adaptable people, very resourceful-and also, highly inquisitive. Whereas the Elves, upon their ancient awakening, had merely admired the strange environment about them, this new race of creatures was discontent to simply observe. With insatiable curiosity, they picked the fair flowers beneath them and meticulously dissected their fragile parts, searching for explanation of their substance. For long hours, they scraped the bark from slender trees and plucked the flimsy shafts of grasses from the ground, in an eager endeavor to learn of their hidden characteristics. With an intense scrutiny, they methodically studied everything around them, driven by an irrepressible desire to understand, to fathom the vast complexity of the things they saw-and thus, did they ever strive to _comprehend _the world, whereas aforetime, it had been merely revered.

The Elves remember also that, in those days, a strange change came over nature. The life force of all things began to flow at a quicker pace, with new vigor and spirit. The world breathed as if, having long been set in a calm, still pool, it was suddenly being tossed to and fro by impatient ripples of change. Living creation was burgeoning and blossoming, saturated with an aura of growth and youth. It truly seemed as if almost, a feeling of restlessness hung like an omnipresent canopy over all the land.

The newly awakened people, dwelling by the river, had as yet, no highly sophisticated means of verbal communication. Though they had begun the process of devising a spoken language among themselves, their progress was slow, and so, for the most part, they still existed in a mute environment, communicating by facial expression or bodily gesture. Often, however, they perceived that strange forms of messages would come to them in the water, inscrutable expressions of kindness and amity. Truly, it was the great Vala of the sea, Ulmo, who sent these benevolent communications up the river to their people; but they, unlike the Quendi, had not skill in such matters. Thus, though they loved the odd messages, they could not interpret them; and perhaps, if the case had been otherwise, many griefs of this world might have been avoided.

For it was not long 'ere one evening, they perceived that a strange shadow seemed to pass over their settlement-and then, with a shrill, horrible screech, abruptly shift its path and make back over them in the way it had come. Indeed, this was one of the fell creatures which Morgoth had dispatched to spy out Middle Earth in searching for their newly awakened kindred; and it was soon after that whispered word came to his ear of the humble dwelling by the river, where thrived a strange people.

Then Morgoth laughed aloud in his great throne room, and with all haste and at the distressed astoundment of his troops, himself departed Thangorodrim, abandoning his counsels of war with all the world of the Eldalie to seek out the valley of Hildorien. Alone he went, for he trusted this endeavor to none other than himself; and, in a short time, he came upon the habitation of the new creatures.

For awhile, with careful stealth, he watched them, observing their customs, their temperaments, their interests, and their manners of reasoning; and, within, a short while, he perceived which among them were recognized as possessing authority. Then, with especial consideration, he observed those two, the brown-headed man and golden-haired woman, discovering by small degrees their trends of thought and behavior-and when at last he felt confident that he had weighed the inclinations of this race's mind and heart to a nicety, he made his move.

On a time, it chanced that the two leaders of the settlement had strayed off from the others by themselves, adventuring deep into the forest which bordered their quiet valley. As they strolled side by side, a tall figure suddenly emerged from out of the shadows. With a warm smile, he hailed them, beckoning them to draw closer. Both were afraid and would feign have turned and fled away, but that suddenly, it seemed as though they heard voiceless thoughts within their minds. Indeed, Morgoth registered their lack of verbal ability; but, through keen observation, he had found that communication could be held with them by way of thought and subtle device of magic. Thus, the dark Vala used the powers of his high kind to impress his silent words upon the two creatures and to patiently draw out their unuttered responses.

He invited them to hold converse with him; and though warily they accepted, in a short while they were put at ease and communicated freely. At a point in their discourse, Morgoth singularly addressed the man, cleverly preventing his thought from entering into the woman's mind.

_She is very fair, is she not?_

With a smile, the man turned his gaze to her, his eyes aglow.

Morgoth smiled._ I see that you care for her very deeply; but do you not know, my Friend, of the danger she is in?_

The man started in alarm. _What danger is this of which you speak?_ he demanded, snapping his head back up to the tall Vala's.

Inwardly, Morgoth laughed. _Why this: Now she lives and loves with joy, a vibrant creature possessed of strength and beauty-but not forever, Friend. Soon, ' ere many seasons of this world are past, you will behold a change creep over her countenance. Subtly, it will begin, but with the continuous passing of the years it will grow. The golden shimmer of her hair will dull to a lusterless grey; her flawless skin will bear the marring of countless lines; her bright eyes will dim 'neath the slow sagging of their heavy lids; and her clear, sweet voice will thicken to a hoarse rasp, cracked under the burden of the years. Slowly, you will watch her beauty fade as by steady degrees she is changed into a shrunken, withered creature; and you will witness her strength gradually fail as, with each passing year, she grows weaker and weaker, her life force running thinner and thinner-until, one day, beneath the burden of age a bowed and miserable shell of her former self…she will die._

With a gasp, the man leaped to his feet. _NO!!! You lie! It is not true! Such a horror could not be true!_

Raising a hand, Morgoth summoned a vision to appear before the man's eyes. _I have not spoken lies, and true this horror is-behold for yourself!_

The man's eyes widened as he saw before him his beloved companion as she presently was, beautiful and energetic. Then, suddenly the image darkened as a hideous transformation came over her being; like woven spiderwebs, numerous lines crept over her fair face while her sparkling golden hair became as grey straw. With dull, weary eyes, she gazed at him sorrowfully, her beauty destroyed, her strength all but gone. Then, even as Morgoth had prophesied it, her lids slowly closed as she sank in exhaustion to the ground, her chest suddenly ceasing its cycle of rising and falling-and there she lay, still and lifeless, her face pale with the touch of death.

An anguished cry ripping from his throat, the man fell to his knees upon the ground, bitterly weeping with his head in his hands. The woman, ignorant of the dire vision he had just beheld, started in alarm and rushed to his side, her eyes trembling with bewildered concern. With a pale face, the man lifted his head to gaze at her; then, closing his eyes in despair, he took her in his arms and held her close, tenderly stroking her hair.

Morgoth smiled to himself. _What an anguish you must endure, to lose your love so soon before the two of you have even yet begun to discover the fullness of life; but pity her not too deeply in your heart, young Friend-for this doom is not hers alone._

His eyes snapping open, the man wheeled around to face Morgoth.

With a guise of sympathy, the dark Vala continued. _This same black fate, in the fullness of time, waits for you also-yea, and for all your kindred even unto the ending of the world. For Death runs in your veins more swiftly and surely than blood-and, one by one, even as your kind awoke from the darkness of sleep, so in the end will they each return back into it, only never to wake again._

The man's face was white with horror. _How can this be?_ he cried in his mind._ What cruel power conceived of this evil doom and laid it thus so mercilessly upon living creatures? What wrong have my kindred done that we should be so condemned to such suffering and grief?_

_No wrong have your kindred done,_ answered Morgoth._ But this is the cruel design of the Lord Iluvatar, Maker of this world and your people, that you should thus be gifted to live only a little while, and then perish into ruin and darkness._

_You have not answered,_ persisted the man. _Wherefore has this been done to us? For what purpose is this dire fate?_

_There is no purpose,_ Morgoth returned coldly. _The Maker cares nothing for your kind-wherefore he allows your swift end at his whim and gives his thought to other matters._

_Is there then no way to escape? _the man cried out in his mind._ Is there no way by which even one of my people may be saved? What other matters does the Lord Iluvatar dwell upon that he gives no heed to us, his creation, no recourse for the abation of our grief?_

Morgoth smiled._ The Maker dwells most often on his greatest work, in which he takes both pride and delight._

The man blinked. _What great work is this, of which you speak?_ he inquired.

_Another kindred of creatures, such as thyselves, which He wrought into being ages before the awakening of your people, _Morgoth told him._ They are His first and dearest work-His beloved, favored above all by even His high servants from beyond the world. The Quendi they are named, and the Firstborn, the Eldar, and the Eldalie. To their people the high Maker gives the gift of life everlasting; and upon their immortal bodies, he has bestowed a beauty and a glory which far surpasses thine. For Iluvatar has fashioned their kindred to dwell in bliss and majesty unending, the awe and envy of all other living creatures._

With an enraged countenance, the man lashed out with his thoughts._ The people of my race are a thought in the mind of the Maker but for a little while, while the people of His first making are near to His heart for eternity? What gross injustice is this, what cruel and careless Lord is this Iluvatar? My beloved and I shall wither and perish while others live and laugh in their joy? Surely this world is an evil place, and its maker an unworthy Lord!_

_Even so did I often brood in solitude,_ stated Morgoth calmly, _until at last, I came to a somber counsel-the unjust authority of the Lord Iluvatar must be overthrown-and with it, the dominion of the Eldar. For they are the great persecutors of this world, arrogant and heedless of all other living peoples, whom they deem lesser than themselves. Even now, they make war upon my realm without cause. But look you-your people might aid me in my struggle against them; and then perhaps, when they are overthrown, their gift of immortality may pass to your kindred, and all your griefs come to an end._

Sharply startled, the man's lips widely parted. _Are you certain of this fact-if we lend you aid in this war against the lofty Firstborn, will our people truly inherit their deathlessness?_

_Their deathlessness and their place,_ Morgoth assured._ I believe that most truly. I see now that our meeting here was purposed, my Friend, to bring aid and good to us both. I implore you-lead me forth to your people that we may share with them the knowledge and hope that we have discovered!_

_Gladly,_ the man assented, rising to his feet,_ and it will be our pleasure to talk with thee of war tonight!_ Taking hold of the woman, who as yet was ignorant of all that had befallen between her two companions, he led the dark Vala through the forest back to their people's encampment.

Thus, did the Great Enemy of the World, Melkor Morgoth, enter into the first dwelling place of man. With mixed emotions, at first, was he received; though many eagerly trusted him, some there were in the beginning who were inclined to be wary of his presence, perceiving that some strange disquiet had begun to settle over their encampment upon his sudden arrival. Notwithstanding, however, it was not long 'ere Morgoth had put all doubts and suspicions to rest; and quickly he became their honored friend and guide. For the people found that he had great knowledge of many things, of tree and fruit and beast and weather-and they loved him for it and revered his counsel. Thus, in time, did he begin to speak to them as he had with the first man, concerning the coming of death and the hope of escaping it through war with the Firstborn.

_Death will devour you all to dust! _he fervently proclaimed. _Your husbands, your wives, your children-unless you be noble enough to hinder it! _With many fell visions and vehement speech, the dark Vala urged the people to a counsel of war; and within the hearts of their kindred, a cold fear began to be stirred up of death, and an envious hatred of the Quendi, who suffered it not.

Other discontents Morgoth also wove. To the women he brought warning of the matchless beauty of the Elvish maidens, foretelling that if the men of their kind looked upon them, they would leave themselves abandoned. So did the women of the people begin to grow jealous and bitter that, being already set below the daughters of the Eldalie in loveliness, their fairness should be thus doomed to yet worsen even far more sorely under the burden of old age. The many parents who constantly tended the illnesses of their young children were resentful also of a people whose little ones were never tormented by disease or bodily suffering. The men of the settlement were filled with envy by the tale of a kindred whose strength and stamina never grew weary, and who could remain, with ease and comfort, awake for days on end, their bright eyes not bowing with the need for sleep. Thus, was the influence of Morgoth spread far and wide; and soon the people began to believe in his words and to make counsel for war-and they cast great stones and logs into the stream beside their dwelling, convinced by the dark Vala that the strange messages running up it were omens of evil which must needs be silenced.

As all of their kindred sought to prepare for war, however, two held back from the work; and these were the leaders of the race, whom Morgoth had first spoken with in the forest. They it had been who had first led him to the settlement of the people; but now, having witnessed the hostile change that had come over their brethren and having grown to sense some inscrutable darkness lurking behind the fair guise of the dark Vala, their minds were changed. Of concern to them also was his advised blocking of the stream and rejection of the mysterious messages they had always drawn calm and revitalization from. Thus, in the midst of the assembly of their kindred, they brought him to trial, questioning him long and extensively on the history and nature of both the Lord Iluvatar and the Firstborn; and though he answered all with lies smooth and subtle, at the close, the chieftain couple was yet unsatisfied and mistrustful of his motives. Thus, they ordered the clearing of the stream and the halting of their kindred's military preparations.

The seeds of Morgoth had already been sown, however, and the people held him in good faith and respect, not realizing that many of their thoughts and designs, which they imagined to have come from their own minds, had in fact their origin in Morgoth's dark influence. Thereby many of the kindred openly refused the commands of their chieftains, while others stood silent and waited to see what might occur.

Then, the ruling man spoke out loudly and harshly against Morgoth, accusing him of poisoning the minds of his people and usurping his place of leadership. Morgoth, however, grown confident in his influence among the settlement, smiled and answered: _You who accuse me are the one who spreads poison; for I have offered your people hope and a future, in freedom from the bondage of death. But you, I perceive, would seek to rob them of their only chance of obtaining it, condemning them to remain a frail and hidden people of the wild. _

_I no longer believe the words you speak,_ retorted the man,_ that death may be taken from us in the waging of a war against thine enemies. Perhaps the Lord Iluvatar truly does not care for us, and whether or no from death there be any escape for our kindred, I do not know. But this I hold-that it lies not within the slaughter of another race of creatures, not in the destruction of the told Firstborn!_ Turning his gaze upon the gathered masses, he then appealed to the people._ Brothers!_ his mind cried. _Aid me! I call upon your loyalty! Help me to drive forth this dark, accursed being who has clouded our minds and darkened our hearts!_

But the people all stood silent. Then Morgoth laughed aloud and mocked the man._ Fool!_ he spake. _You purposed to drive me forth from this place as one of your mean subjects? But now, if you will scorn wisdom, then claim I the rulership of this kindred! We will march to liberation apart from you and your headstrong wife!_

Thereupon, Morgoth reached down and hoisted up the man and his golden-haired wife in his mighty hands; and amidst their screams and pleas for help, he flung them headlong into a great tree, slaying them vengefully. Then, all the people paled in horror, and some displayed much grief; but none were there who struck out against Morgoth. All together they silently stood and looked on their eldest chieftains, watching the red pool of blood that slowly flowed out from beneath the enormous tree roots.

_Will you serve me?_ The question suddenly echoed within the minds of all the people in the settlement.

With trembling countenances, they turned to Morgoth. _You slew our rulers,_ they faltered.__

_I know,_ Morgoth returned. _Will you serve me?_

Throughout the masses, guilt swept like a horrible flood, drowning them in grief; but beholding death before them in the bodies of their rulers, they were filled with a maddening terror that went beyond all reason. One and all, they slowly made answer: _Yes._

**V**

No tale tells of what dark doom then befell the race of this people. Among all the archaic records of this world, there are none that speak concerning the black craft which Morgoth in that ancient hour wove over them into the very fiber of their being. It is not known whether there were ones who resisted and were destroyed, or whether all willingly bowed to evil; but, in the end, it is told that some strange perversion was wrought by Melkor in the hearts of that kindred-and that thus, a subtle darkness was within them ever after, which even if by virtue was laid to dormancy, in later ages and generations would ever and anon reawaken to trouble them.

Upon his completion of this vile work, Morgoth began the swift training of the new kindred for war; however, in his long absence, the battle had begun to go ill for his legions-and thus, in a short while, he was compelled to take leave of his pupils and return to Thangorodrim. This pleased him little, for at that time he had not yet many able followers; and also he was fast grown impatient with the slow rate at which the new creatures seemed to make progress.

Thus, upon his return, did he share a measure of his frustrations with his foremost servant Sauron. In listening to his master, the dark Maia was filled with confusion. "My Lord," he puzzled, "if these new beings are so weak beside the Eldar, less in stature, strength, and endurance, and not possessed of any magic, then how can it be that they are the race which can wield dominion over all others? How could it be that their frail selves would ever succeed to fell the Firstborn and even the high devices of the Ainur?"

"Because," answered Morgoth, "as the Elves most closely resemble Manwe and Varda, and the Naugrim Aule the Smith, so are these creatures fashioned most closely after myself. I am the mightiest of Eru's creations; and I have been gifted this power-that, whereas others of the Ainur know only the part of the One's mind from which they sprung, I can see beyond into every portion, having a small share in all others'attributes. Thus it is with this people. Their frailty is an illusion only, Sauron. Iluvatar brooded long in thought 'ere he wrought them into being. Strange gifts they have-and to them is given, in the fullness of time, dominion over this world. The Firstborn express the beauty of God; but the Secondborn represent the power of God. You will come to see, the Elves are as a very part of nature-but Men, Men are made to be its ruler."

"Men?" questioned Sauron.

"Yes, that is their name," returned Morgoth with a grim smile. "Look that you never forget it, Sauron; those frail beings, as you so name them, are the mightiest and deadliest on the face of Arda, chilling in their capabilities. Though weak they seem in the beginning, they are our greatest threat-or, if they be subdued, our greatest hope. In dealing with them, we will ever endeavor to seduce them to our service, which as result of my dark work in them, will now oftentimes come to us easily-but those who will not serve us we will destroy, _utterly_, even the women and children."

Sauron could not help a mocking smile. "What, will even their maidens arise in might to assail us?" he spoke dryly.

"It is no laughing matter!" snapped Morgoth harshly. "This kindred is never to be underestimated. If an end to their threat is sought, then it must entail the complete destruction of their world; it is my counsel that all Men will be either corrupted or eliminated. And, above all, it must be guarded against that they are never wholly united-for all together united, nothing within the confines of Ea will be impossible to them."

Then Sauron was silent in amazement. Finally, he spoke in a tone low and somber. "My Lord, I wish to know wherein the great power of this race lies, if not in strength of body or skill of sorcery."

Morgoth slowly smiled. "They are not content," he stated simply.

Sauron blinked. "What mean you, Master?"

"They are not content," Morgoth explained, "with the present state of things. Ever they will seek to alter and improve their existence-for which reason, they unlike the Elves, will never fade nor wane, but only wax with the passing of time. The Elves, after a time, depart for rest and bliss in the Undying Lands, but the world of Men is meant to endure and continue its influence. Iluvatar has fated them for the ultimate rulership of this world. Thus, in His provision, they possessed from the beginning a desire and a drive to establish dominion over things-but because of the work I have done in them, that natural quality will now be perverted. They will be drawn exceedingly to the thought of power and mastery, desiring rulership for its own sake-and their abilities will turn to the creation of works evil and dreadful, a great aid to myself," he finished triumphantly.

"So I see now, why you so hastily made trek to their dwelling, abandoning all else," spoke Sauron. "But what of this trait of Death they possess? Is that a provision of Iluvatar to contain their influence?"

"Nay," answered Morgoth. "Death is the One's dearest gift to them. By it, they are freed in time from their bodies and pass beyond the confines of this world to other tasks and purposes know only to Iluvatar Himself. It is this gift, partly, which gives them their power; ever are they seeking for something beyond this reality, for something higher-thus, ever will they fuel their imaginations with dreams of things not found in existence around them. But this trait has worked greatly to my advantage; I have confounded this hope with fear and made it their grief. Thus, can we ever make use of the aspect of their mortality, to tempt them toward our service with the thought of escaping what they now naively imagine to be a doom."

"All very well this is, My Lord," spoke Sauron. "But what of your frustrations? If this kindred hold the power to achieve mastery over all the world, then why have they not begun to do so? Why doth their advancement seem to come not at all?"

"I perceive," murmured Morgoth slowly, "that their development is being stifled-suppressed by the present nature of the world. The Elves have woven an aura of changelessness over Middle Earth, a will to preserve things from the influence of time; and so the kindred of Men is living under its enchanted power. For this reason, their numbers are growing but slowly, and their drive to wring change is remaining in a state of latency-a clever design of the One, no doubt," he scowled.

"What then, will He give them dominion and then hinder it?" puzzled Sauron.

"Nay," realized Morgoth. "He will merely leave greatly dormant their abilities until the time be right for their releasal." With a cruel smile, he continued. "But perhaps, if the clouding influence of the Firstborn be removed, we may see them burgeon more swiftly."

"But, My Lord, what if their people seek ever to aid the Eldar against you?" queried Sauron.

"We must endeavor to estrange the two kindreds," agreed Morgoth. "But natural aid we will have in that; the Elves will not well understand the hearts of these new creatures, who perceive the world in a different light than themselves. And least of all will the proud rulers of the Eldalie conceive of the hidden potential within the race of Men, which they will deem weaker than themselves in every facet, both in body and in magic."

"Excellent," smiled Sauron. "Then it will be that their powers for greatness shall be concealed from all but us. Men themselves will little guess their own worth. And in the purpose of estrangement, we may thus ever provoke the Elves to look upon the Afterborn as their usurpers, and Men to behold the Firstborn as the unjustly favored and more greatly beloved of the One."

"There is something else," spoke Morgoth slowly. For a moment, he hesitated before somberly continuing. "One gift, which at their conception Iluvatar entrusted to Men, holds terrible danger, apart from whether or no their other capabilities remain latent. It is not common to all of their kindred, but exists only within a chosen few of their number. I searched for it thoroughly among their ranks; but it had not yet come forth. Indeed, exceedingly rarely will it emerge, perhaps appearing only but a small number of times 'ere the ending of this world is come; but, in the brief days amid the countless ages, when it does hail forth, the power and influence expelled at that time will send ripples all the way through to the second creation of the world! It is this: the divine gift from the One _to know the future_-to behold the unfolding of the Song of Arda as if seated by the throne of Iluvatar-to perceive his high plans and purposes for the world and to comprehend their meaning. And around the holy words of these chosen mortals, much of the fate of Arda will be wrought."

"But, Master," interrupted Sauron, "such gift the high among the Elves possess. Do not the rulers of the Eldar behold visions and see with foresight?"

"True," answered Morgoth. "But herein the difference lies: the Eldar may sometimes perceive the future by the inherent magic which runs in their veins; but the Men who perform this act will do so by the special anointing of the One. Therefore will their skill surpass that of the Eldar in many ways. Their visions will come far stronger, continually and unrestrained, on matters of both the near and the far future, nearly unlimited in scope and precision; and whereas at whiles the foresight of the Elves may prove false, the inspired prophecies of Men will never fail to come to fruit, unless they be expressly a warning that is heeded. For Iluvatar will choose these few of the race of Men to be His appointed messengers to the whole of Arda, the bearers of His will and plans. He will hallow their words, and they will proclaim his dooms and purposes to Ainur and Eruhini alike; and they will not blindly see, but comprehend as well the meaning and wisdom of their visions. And, their foresight, proceeding not from object of power nor from inherent sorcery such as the Elves', but from the very mind of Iluvatar, shall in the day of its blooming, be the holiest and most priceless treasure to be sought in the world."

Sauron's eyes widened. "Great knowledge we may have of these chosen few, My Lord; great aid would they be in thy counsels against thine enemies."

"Invaluable aid," replied Morgoth. "But they will likely prove of all living creatures the most difficult to turn to my service; for they are appointed by the One Himself for their position, and Iluvatar does not choose unwisely. I judge they will be noble people, with exceeding strength of these virtues: humilty before the One, truthfulness of speech, and caring for the people of this world-for thus is this what an able and trustworthy messenger of God must be. Moreover, their gift will bring them close to the mind and will of the One; they will know they are His trusted servants and possess a strong inclination to remain faithful to His service. Bending them to the will of His enemies will be a great challenge."

"It will be a long, tiring struggle between our will and theirs," agreed Sauron wearily. "And from all you say, I gather that some of their number may die of exhaustion from the battle before they break."

"NO, NO!!!" Morgoth quickly shouted. "THEY MUST NOT DIE, SAURON! Know this and keep it with you always-the people of which I speak are the rarest treasures to be found within the confines of this world, made rarer by the extreme brevity of their mortal lives. It may be that, within the space of ten thousand years, only one will appear. In the days when one of these appointed Men live upon Arda, they are to be your foremost fear and, perhaps, chiefest concern. In the hands of our enemies, these lone individuals could wring our ruin; indeed, if their gift is discovered, they will be guarded relentlessly by the united legions of all the world at any cost, bearing the title of _seers_, and being employed of rulers to discover our secret designs. The power to be had from them is too great and too rare. If ever one comes into our custody, we will endeavor, by all of our cruel arts and force, to break his will and bow him to our realm-but we must _never_ allow the ending of his life. Kings we will slay, and Elvish sorcerers and even Wizards-but _never_ will we reach forth to smite a seer! They are utterly invaluable; even if it seems that turned they will not be, nonetheless, they will not meet death at our hands. We will continue to attempt their corruption until the natural end of their lives come, but with given care _not_ to press too harshly, least they perish from torment or exhaustion. Too precious are they to ever relinquish the hope of. In no event, is their blood to ever be spilled, for the sake of any desperate purpose or venture."

Sauron blinked. "How are we to discover the presence of these seers, as you name them?" he inquired.

"They will reveal themselves," Morgoth answered with a smile. "Not long can they conceal their gift; they are purposed to use it. But come-let us speak now of other matters. We must needs form new counsel concerning war upon the Eldar as Men's prowess may not now emerge until a far later age of this world."

Thus did the Dark Lord and his foremost servant end their discussion of the kindred of Men; and Sauron never forgot the words of his master concerning them. In ages which lay far to the future, he would take heed of their ancient discourse and employ its counsels in all of his dark and crafty designs.

As it chanced, however, by fortune or by some untold divine intervention, upon Morgoth's departure from their dwelling, a number of the Men had begun to reconsider their loyalty; and at last, this portion of them shook off their yoke of evil and withdrew from Hildorien to seek a free existence in another region of the land. Thus were they soon discovered by the Elves. By the Eldar, they were given many names: Men, the Secondborn, the Aftercomers, the Edain, the Atani-and true to Morgoth's words they were often not understood by the Firstborn or deemed to be an inferior race of creatures, being thus called by some "the Inscrutable" or "the Sickly". From the Elves, however, Men learned the art of speech and much of the manner of living; and between many Elves and Men, there arose a great friendship, even as Morgoth had feared. For by the Elves, Men came also to the proper knowledge of Iluvatar and of the Valar and of the true nature of Death as a gift to their kindred. All of this the race of Men received with wonder and gladness; but when the Elves would question them in curiosity concerning their first origins and history, the Men would fall silent with somber expressions and answer only this: "A great darkness lies behind us, and thither we do not wish to return even in thought." Nonetheless, the Elves clearly perceived that a subtle darkness lived within the hearts of this new kindred; and that, coupled with their seeming gross weakness and inferiority, ensured that there would ever be, among some of the Firstborn, a mistrust and a disdain of Men.

As is told, however, in countless ancient annals of history, in a short while, the kindred of Men began a great trek westward, over the Misty Mountains and into the region of Middle Earth which the Elves called Beleriand. They so journeyed because they had heard rumor of a great light in the West from which flowed rest and peace. Truly, they did not know that this light was to be found within the realm of the Valar across the sea, upon which sacred shore they could not set foot. Thus, ignorant of this design and filled with the longing for calm and bliss, all the arisen clans and divisions of Men together embarked on a great migration into the West of Middle Earth-all except one. Of that small, anomalous tribe of Edain, no record in Middle Earth is kept; and it is around their strange people that this tale is wrought.

**VI**

As has been told, the great majority of the ancient kindred of Men began a trek to the West to seek out the legendary light of the Valar; a portion of their number, however, was in dissent with this plan. They were a wary and crafty clan of people, given much to thought and strategy; and they suggested the notion that the rumor of the light might be merely a clever ploy of Morgoth to again in some manner beguile their race and bring them harm. Instead of traveling westward, they proposed a migration to the East, in the direction opposite of the beckoning light. The great remainder of the Edain, however, were ill-disposed to such a strangely paranoid idea, and hence, they pressed on with their westward course-but the dissenters became a lone people and thus, set out in solitude on a long march into the sunrise.

Now it was not long 'ere Morgoth learned of the Men who had deserted his service since the time of his return to Thangorodrim; and being filled with rage, he again himself embarked from his stronghold to either re-convert them or destroy them. Soon it was that he discovered their taken paths; and though their greater number lay on a road to the West, difficult it would be to assail them-for now they had found refuge from his malice behind the borders of the mighty realms of the Eldar and lived largely under their protection. Thus, did Morgoth direct his attention instead toward the division of the East-goers, who journeyed in small numbers and without allies away from all sources of aid.

So it was, then, that at a time in their march, the east-going Atani began to be pursued by the threat of a great shadow and darkness; but recognizing it from afar as the coming of Morgoth, they quickly fled, halting only when the exhaustion of their kind's endurance utterly demanded it. Morgoth, however, followed with terrible speed and iron resolve; and thus, the people were compelled to flee farther and farther eastward, passing even the ancient valley of their awakening at Hildorien. Ever Morgoth continued his pursuit, driving them near to insanity with terror and coming closer behind them every day, until, at the last, it seemed that he would surely lay hold of them. Just as it appeared that their clan stood beaten to the ground and lost without hope, however, tidings reached Morgoth's ears of new developments concerning the war in the West; and, though grudgingly, he was compelled to turn back-for although he held Men in great importance, yet they were not his only concern in the world. Thus was the lone, battered people spared.

Their aroused terror unabated, however, the small band aggressively continued their eastward flight, desperate to find an eternal escape from the grip of Morgoth. Thus it was that after months of difficult journey, they wandered at length beyond the borders of all known lands and out of the knowledge of all earthly peoples-and coming upon a suitable space of land, they at last halted their course and established a realm of their own, remotely secluded from the rest of Middle Earth.

Now was there great rejoicing, for it seemed that they had managed to forever elude Morgoth; and in that time also did a high and sacred event occur-within their encampment, was born into the world the first of the seers, upon which special individuals so much of Arda's fate would be based. At every turn was joy and excitement as the tribe of Men thus began to build their new abode.

Very soon was their livelihood established and their culture developed. They were a solitary people, content to be isolated from the awareness and business of all other lands; for in their judgment, the greatest ensurement of lasting safety was a state of secrecy. Nonetheless, they had employed the tactic of the periodic dispatchment of scouts back into the distant West to spy out the other wide realms of Middle Earth and learn of what became there for matters of their own security. In this way, they acquired knowledge of the unfolding tale of the remainder of their kindred and also of the many other kindreds and cultures of Arda.

Upon a certain day, however, the returning scouts rode into their village with pale faces and loud cries for an immediate mass assembly-for tidings of great evil did they bear. In their wandering, they had learned that Morgoth, always engaged in attack upon the free peoples of the West, was now openly waging his war with the purpose to conquer and enslave all of Middle Earth-and speedily was his aim being reached, the kingdoms of the Eldar steadily falling one by one.

Now were all alarmed, and straightway there arose from the gathered crowd a mighty tumult of overwrought voices. "Morgoth sought to persecute our people because we were small in number and, being lone wanderers, sundered from all aid!" were their cries. "And so he drove us farther and farther into the East, away from all settlements into a wilderness, until other dealings in the West became of greater importance! Doubtless, he thinks us perished or else long since reunited with the other peoples of the world; and in that, there is safety, for his thought turns not to our land. Yet, if the Dark One _does_ win his war, it will not be long 'ere he casts his eye toward unexplored horizons of his kingdom and discovers us. A lone, weak people, we shall be destroyed for sport!" Thus, was their great fear.

Yet some there were who spoke out in hope. "Then let us use his present ignorance to our swift advantage," they urged. "In the time while his thought lays fixed on the many of the West, let the few of the East make fast their escape!"

"An escape to what purpose?" was nonetheless dismally answered. "To what corner of Middle Earth shall we fly but that Morgoth will find us in the end? We are doomed."

In the midst of their despair, however, the voice of one spoke out; and this man was the seer. Throughout the course of his life, he had gained great respect and honor for his recognized gift of gazing into the mysterious realm of the future and revealing the designs of Iluvatar, acting as a messenger of the One. Thus, at his arising, did all fall silent-for who dare speak when one coming in the authority of God Himself opens their mouth? And the seer spoke: "Do not give yourselves to fear! For I tell you-there is a place prepared for us beyond the shores of this Middle Earth. Back into the West we must trek, to sail in ships down the great river of Anduin into the sea-and then turn our ships east. Much preparation must be made, for this sea is the greatest in the world, and the journey will be long and wrought with hardship-but when we come to its end, to the end of the great sea, at the edge of the world we shall see a land where we may find refuge. It is the easternmost land of Arda as Valinor is the westernmost; and though its fairness is least of all shores in the world, its safety is the greatest. There shall we dwell and our descendants until the ending of Time, for the One has raised its dimensions and given it unto us, as a haven for the nature and dreams of his Younger Children."

Throughout the crowd was heard a hush of amazement. "What, a place untouched by the Elves, where Men will be the first to tread?" the people asked.

"Even so," the seer replied. "And for this reason, that land will not come forth in so great a beauty as Middle Earth; indeed, Nature there will be wild and sometimes violent. But it will be built upon the wings of Men's imagination to a height such as the Powers themselves would marvel at; for the High Father cares for His Younger Children also, as much His creation and delight as His Elder. And as long as we remain humble and faithful to His knowledge and to goodness, He will guide all of our endeavors with wisdom."

Then, the people all stood astonished. Another land of Arda, secret and apart from all? Could such a marvel be true? Incredible it seemed, and foolhardy, to all at once depart their land and sail altogether into the unknown space of the sea, searching for an undiscovered shoreline-yet none were inclined to doubt the words of the seer. Thus did they diligently begin preparation for the great voyage, crafting a fleet of ships and gathering store of supplies.

As the time drew near for them to depart, however, their lookouts suddenly espied a strange band of foreigners riding in great haste out of the West in a line toward their settlement. Growing nervous in fear, the village made ready a crude defense and dispatched a legion of men out from their encampment to question the outsiders. At sunset, however, their scouts returned to the settlement leading the strange riders beside them.

Calling an assembly, they eagerly revealed the identity of the visitors to the masses. "These men are of a people who journeyed westward and then, after dwelling a time within the realms of the Elves, turned back eastward, seeking to escape lands of war. They, as our clan, have now been forgotten by the others of the Edain; and hearing from us of our flight from Middle Earth to a hidden land all our own, they wish to join themselves to our number."

The most part of the settlement was delighted by this turn of events; for they smiled upon the strangers as their long lost brethren and were eager for the chance to thus increase their numbers. Therefore, they warmly welcomed the newcomers and bade them prepare their people to accompany them. Glad was the settlement indeed to at last have the fellowship of a kindred with which they shared like sentiments.

Thus were all unutterably shocked and dismayed when the seer of their people unexpectedly spoke out and forbade the alliance with the foreigners. "A shadow of dishonor hangs over this people," he warned. "Long did they dwell content in the lands of the Eldar; but when the Dark Lord began to make war upon those realms, their true loyalty was revealed. With slander and false accusations, they spoke out bitterly against their Elvish patrons, blaming them for the evils of Morgoth and proclaiming that the Firstborn had all along deceived their people with tales of the One and the Valar in order to keep them subdued to their wills. And while the rest of the Edain rose to the aid of their Elvish friends in battle, this people deserted their alliances and fled, thus returning to these realms. Now they would seek to claim kinship with our tribe because they perceive that we hold the power to escape from the shadow; but by their unworthy acts, we must judge them. They are a people not fast holding to knowledge of the truth, which we have been commanded to be, that thereby Iluvatar may bless our future endeavors with wisdom. They are a people not loyal to their friends, fleeing in time of trouble; and in the end, I fear that they will prove faithless to us also. And they are a people given to anger and ill conduct in the face of hardship. This bodes not well, for in the new land, it will be required of us to combat many difficulties strange and unencountered by those who dwell upon the shores of Middle Earth. I urge you, Brethren, think not lightly on these things! I do not believe it is the will of the One that these strangers go with us. Do not worry, however, of their safety; if we leave their numbers upon these shores, I behold that Iluvatar shall make provision for them and preserve them from harm-we do not abandon them to doom. The One, in His power, will establish a way for their care-but it is not destined that this succor should come from among us. The fate of their people is not appointed to be joined to that of ours. If you thus so force their union, I do not foresee that good will come out of it. My counsel is this: to hold to our first course and set forth from Middle Earth alone-and to leave these outsiders, uncalled to the task, behind. Thus will things go well for us in the days to come."

With heavy hearts was this counsel received among the people. Brief though there time together had been, already had they grown to look upon the newcomers as friends, and they were loath to leave them behind in an eternal parting. Moreover did they yearn for the expansion of their kindred to a greater number, thus adding, as they deemed, to the hope of their success in the new land. Therefore did debate arise concerning the seer's message; for though they held him in the highest honor, in this matter, they were little pleased with his words. Thus, in the end, did this people, chosen of God though they were, execute a grave unwisdom-they refused the counsel of their seer and purposed to allow the union of their people to the foreigners notwithstanding. From this foolishness did many of their kindred's later griefs spring; and thus would be bitterly revealed to them, and to all the world, what comes of not heeding the words of a seer.

**VII**

Thus did this forgotten kindred of Edain, now a mixed people, flee the land of Middle Earth, though some of their number would have feign remained to join their distant brothers in the war against Morgoth. Coming to the river Anduin, they sailed by night down its dim waters into the vast and uncharted sea; and then turning their ships eastward, they hailed the sunrise and began their long odyssey into its light. For months on end, did they voyage over the rough ocean waters, through storm of wind and wave, and plague of cold and hunger. Oftentimes, however, when the sea was calm, the people would emerge forth from their cabins onto the decks of the ships and call to one another on the boats which passed near to theirs. To further ease the burden of their journey, the Men would also pass the idle time with talk of the new land they were to come to, each sharing what he purposed to do upon their arrival. In this way did the Edain fleet of vessels travel for well nigh half a year, making catch of fish for food and carefully preserving their store of water.

Early upon one morning, however, a clear, high-pitched cry rang suddenly across the chilly air. With great eagerness, the people let drop their work and rushed with all haste up to the decks of the ships, waking those who still slept and bidding their children quit their play and come alongside them in quiet order. All together the people stood upon the wooden decks, peering into the eastern horizon; and as the ocean mists slowly lifted, by the pale morning light, they descried the faint line of a far distant shore-at long last, their great and difficult journey was ended, and they had come to the hidden land of promise. So, beaching their boats, they one and all blessed the One and gave their people the name of "The Lost", because, for good or ill, they were now lost to the rest of Arda; and the new land they named Erbar, or "lonely dwelling", since they would live apart from the rest of the world.

Now at first, the people held closely together, united under one appointed ruler; but as time bore on, they began to face the difficulties of the new land the seer had warned them of. Here, Nature was not mild and kind to life as it had been in Middle Earth. The heat and cold were far more extreme, and the ground often less suitable for farming. The countryside was not so green, the trees not so tall, nothing as fair to behold as the home they had left. Here also were strange animals, some wilder than Middle Earth's, especially the horses which they most desperately needed. Moreover, violent storms of sky and ground and sea occurred here which did not ever chance in Middle Earth. Thunder prevailed in nightmarish rainstorms until lightening struck the ground and spread ravaging fires. Balls of ice fell from the heavens, destroying their crops, while farther north, wind storms of snow buried houses. Strange, dark funnels of wind descended from the sky to wreak havoc and terror amid villages, while in some regions, the ground now and again suddenly shook and cracked wide, breeding incredible damage. Near the coastline, great storms of wind and water would sometimes rush through settlements, slaying many, while on islands apart from the mainland, the mountains spit forth fire and ash, and great waves reaching as it seemed to the very sky came crashing down upon their shores. Even on their seas, there were great funnels of water akin to those of wind on land that drew in passing ships and altered the tides. Here in this land were deserts and swamps, and dangerous creatures inhabited them--stinging-tailed insects in the deserts, huge, many-teethed lizards in the swamp waters. Also, were there all manner of snake and spider, while an abundance of mosquitoes spread many strange, new diseases. The people died, their animals died, their crops withered, and their homes perished-and no Elves were there here to guide or aid them in their struggle with Nature.

Then was the dire prophecy of the seer concerning the union with the outsiders fulfilled; for that division among the people, under strain faithless to the One, began to lament aloud the trek to the new land, calling it cursed, and advised a return to Middle Earth. The remainder of the people, slowly grown with time and habit to live under their influence, in neglect of their ancient integrity, were now disposed to listen to such talk and entertain notions of rebellion toward Iluvatar's purposes. Soon, a great clamor arose throughout the land to abandon the struggle of subduing their God-given home and embark again for the world of the West. "The land across the sea was fair and sweet, and there we may dwell again," they suggested. "Let us away form this miserable place! For surely, the One was mad in bringing us here. Let us return to the Middle Earth!"

But by the wiser among them they were answered: "We dare not return. Surely Morgoth has reign over all of Middle Earth by now, and we will return only to ruin and eternal darkness. Hither we have come, and hither we must dwell, though we despise it; for there _is_ no other space in the world for us."

Then, too long tainted by the sentiments of the foreigners whom they had foolishly allowed to become their influential neighbors, the people grew angry, and in their frustration, they committed a grave abomination, the prices of which are still being paid by the descendants of that land-they cried aloud a curse on the name of the One, and so brought down a curse upon themselves. "Is this the great land that was promised us, Eru, the haven of Your provision for the Sons of Men?!" was their bitter cry. "Your Elder Children walk in the bliss of Valinor, but to Your Afterborn, You toss the most hateful land in all the world, a realm of horror that none could master! Calamity and sickness, violence and disaster, plague our people! THE LAND OF _TERROR_ is where You have brought us and forced our livelihood! You have abandoned Your Children, and so, do we curse You to Your cruel face, oh Eru Iluvatar Most High!" they shouted-and so did they now call their land Deldorthaur, "the land of terror and horror", and regarded it with hatred and bitterness.

From that time onward, a great darkness began to breed in the hearts of the people of that land. Protecting only themselves, they lied and stole one from another and rioted in their streets, becoming a people of quarrels and violence. Their successive rulers strove to maintain order, but eventually, there came the day when a civil war erupted. The unity of the land was broken, and its house of kings destroyed. There was much bloodshed, and in the end, the people scorned each other in great bitterness.

Thus, they divided their numbers and scattered to different parts of the wide land. Each group became its own people with a distinct realm, language, and culture; and so did bordered lands arise on the great continent like as in Middle Earth. The populations of these individual kingdoms also grew with prodigious speed; for in departing Middle Earth, the race of Men was no longer blanketed under the cloud of changelessness which the presence of the Elves had woven over life. Thus, did their numbers now increase exceedingly rapidly, until finally, their complete population was well nigh equal to that of all the combined races and peoples of Middle Earth. Eventually, the bitterness of the past was forgotten by later generations, and the separate realms began to hold trade and alliance with each other. There were series of wars and series of treaties; old realms fell while new arose; and the time could not be remembered when they had ever been as one land or people. The only thing which could have been said to impart a spirit of unity to all the land was a universal sentiment of forever maintaining a shun of Middle Earth; for new generations had the dark tale passed down to them of a great evil and horror which reigned unchallenged there. Thus in their own land, hard and chaotic as it was, did all the people hold themselves to be safe.

But under their self-inflicted curse of rebellion and blasphemy, much evil abounded. Rulers of realms governed selfishly without care for their people, breeding hatred of kings; men ceased to honor maidenhood and treated the race of women, in speech and action, as rightless property, filling damsels with rage against their lords; for personal gain and reputation of honor, parents sold their children into marriages without concern for their happiness, turning sons and daughters against their fathers, and pitting the younger against the elder. Thus, all the land was ravaged by grief and wrong.

Finally, however, dawned the day when one bold young conqueror, whom their annals of history remember as Sargon the Great, aspired to rule all the land, as did the first kings in the times of old. Through a tale long and wrought with danger, he embarked on this greatly ambitious quest with tremendous hardship and yet was undaunted by fear of failure-for at his side was a newly born seer, a wise daughter of kings whose name was Cassandra. And with the aid of her miraculous gifting, he was nigh invincible in his conquest-for Cassandra, at the secret will of the One, employed her powers of foresight to ensure his constant victory in his strategies and tactics of battle. Thus did Sargon the Great continue his military ventures through many long years; until, on his deathbed of old age, he had at last succeeded in raising his triumphant banner over all the realms and regions of the wide land.

Now, herefore, after ages, was the land again one, a hugely vast empire, and for centuries, so it remained; but its rulers, as in olden times, continued to be arrogant tyrants, bringing the people's wrath ever higher-until one day, at last, the unthinkable happened. The people rose up in enraged rebellion and murdered their own ruler-and vowed to put none in his place. Instead, they devised a crude system by which they might rule themselves, unbowed to one sole figure of authority; but it soon became anarchy and bred only more chaos.

However, in that time of war, another seer was luckily born to them, a righteous and gentle woman, who came to be called Joan of Arc. With her wise and inspired words, she sparked, after millennia, the beginning of a return in the people's hearts to the One. Thus, after her death, the people resolved to quit their new failing system of government and reinstate a ruler again; but, beginning by small measures to find redemption in their hearkening to Joan's words and waxing attitude of repentance for past wrongs, the masses had the wisdom to this time also establish the institution of law-common written codes of duty and honor, to the authority of which even the rulers must now be subject.

For a time now, was there a refreshing era of peace in the land. Many renounced the ancient curse sworn by their ancestors, and goodness and wisdom began to reawaken in the people's hearts. They began new schools of thought and sought now to study the frightening Nature around them rather than curse it, and to understand the principles by which it was conceived; and slowly, they began to see that what they had named chaos was in fact order, and a system that they could master and use for their own benefits. The tale of Joan of Arc, the kind seer who helped her people from the darkness of rebellion into the light of wisdom, is too long to here relate; and some of it, perhaps, has not as yet been told to any. But to this day, that people still blesses her memory and honors her name as a figurative title for anyone pure and good or loyal and heroic.

However, as time wore on, the king again began to infringe upon justice. In truth, the wrongs in themselves, this time, were nothing as had been committed before; but the people had now grown accustomed to the sacredness of their long-standing law, and filled with fresh integrity, would not stand for the slightest rejection by a ruler of the least of its statues. And so, for liberty pure and the permanent rights of all men, they fought another war for independence from their sovereign. But when they had deposed him, the people instituted a new government, based upon the learned wisdom of all their history, that was like no other that had yet been in the world: an exceedingly complex system of self-rule which combined a rule of the people with a rule of law-and this new, wholly unique, devised form of government they formally pronounced to be "a constitutional democratic republic". And their vast land they named, at last and forevermore, the United States of America-in repentance of their ancient rebellious folly, a nation under God.

Soon, swift changes swept the land. Slavery was abolished; women rose to a position of equality; marriage became by choice; and, upon the reaching of adulthood, children were made free to lead their own lives, unbowed to their parents wishes. The study of nature exploded with floods of new discoveries and became known as "science". Fulfilling the seer's ancient prophecy, on the wings of their imaginations, Men built countless strange and amazing machines to make easier their lives and ever ascended higher and higher in knowledge and mastery of Nature-and suddenly, the worst land of the world had become the most powerful, prosperous, and luxurious.

Yet, their culture was now utterly different from any other of the world: Scholars usurped warriors. Kings and queens were figures of folklore. Maidenhood was a thing of the past. Arranged marriages were unheard of. Parental authority beyond the age of one and twenty was nonexistent; and even their whole manner of speech and apparel had changed.

What most set them apart from the rest of Arda, however, was _electricity_, the name they had given to the harnessed force of Nature which fueled nearly all of their fantastic achievements, and which the people of the land commonly referred to in informal speech as "the power". Using its energy, they soon created a complex series of machines, dubbed "satellites", for the purpose of seeing and monitoring Middle Earth from afar; and upon their first observation of its lands, though they were surprised to find it free of Morgoth, they were shocked to behold it in roughly the same condition that it had been in millennia ago when they had left it. The people of Middle Earth they called "Midlings"; and to most Americans they were not a serious thought in a lifetime.

The Lost had lived up to their name: They were entirely self-sufficient and disinterested with all business but their own, content to leave the outside world alone and be left alone by it. Besides, from the many ancient realms that had once existed in their land, the Americans had a rich host of widely diverse cultures contained within themselves. Thus, their land, as they said, was "a melting pot", and not in need of any foreign refreshment.

There was goodness in the land, principles of liberty and equality-they were the Land of the Free, the Land of Oppurtunity. Yet ever were there hints and traces of their age-old rebellion left to mar their peace; and of their ancient mixing with the foreign clan, there were also now descended two separate strains of people, one more given to goodness and honor, and the other possessing stronger inclinations toward selfishness and evil. Long united, it was impossible to perceive between the two kindreds among themselves; but from this dilution arose much grief, and the realm of America suffered for it and was not as great as it might have been had its founders, in ages past, heeded the words of their seer and not permitted the union of their kindred with that of another, unordained of the One. Ever would there be people now who acted as criminals, defying the just laws of the land and bringing sorrow to what would have been otherwise nigh perfect bliss; while others there were who, greedy for power, acted irresponsibly in the pursuit of science, wasting the natural resources of the land and poisoning the air and waters with the excessive use of their machines. And some Men there were who monstrously abused the creative gifts of their kindred, employing their knowledge and skill to make works of great terror and evil, at the wielding of which the people of the land suffered bitterly. Still, despite the woe of all these continual burdens, life in America, for the most part, was yet a wonder and a bliss.

Unfortunately, however, this in a short while began to give rise to arrogance among some of the people. Forgetting their humble origins, they now looked down upon the other peoples of the world as ignorant, uncivilized, and inferior. "We are the queen of the world," they boasted, "passed by none in power or luxury. Through our science, we can _have_ whatsoever we want, and through our democracy, we can_ do_ whatsoever we want. The Midlings live in filthy ignorance and barbaric customs, while we ever progress to higher greatness. If any knew of us, we would be their envy. What cause have we to care for the lowly rest of the world?"

Not all, however, shared these prejudiced sentiments. Some Americans imagined Middle Earth as being a magical, romantic place and would eagerly have visited there-had it not been for one major barrier. In its dawn, the United States government had established a law which forbade, regardless of any circumstance, any form of relationship with the outside world. This decree had thus been passed for the interest of their security. The Americans knew that in Middle Earth were alien races and powers of scientifically unexplainable magic. Also were there high beings of dark evil who preyed upon the moral flaws of Men in order to bring about their downfall-and the ghostly memory of Morgoth's successful corruption of their kindred was not wholly vanished from America's consciousness. Therefore had the founders of the realm concluded that, for the purpose of their eternal protection, it was wisest to remain hidden and a secret from the rest of Arda, living beyond its troubles and lamentations; and most Americans, for reasons of prejudice or practicality, also agreed with this stance. "We have nothing in common with Middle Earth, anyway," they stated, "so let us stay out of its trivial affairs. The Midlings are nothing to us anyhow, and what would be the point of a relationship with them? We could profit nothing from them. The only thing which would come out of it is that we would be continually entangled in their petty medieval squabbles and archaic affairs-and their ignorant Dark Ages masses certainly don't need an inclusion or involvement in any of _our_ affairs. So let them alone! For our own security, we should monitor what goes on in Middle Earth-but _monitor_ only! Under _no_ conditions, will we ever attempt to contact them."

A few Americans there were, however, who stood in strong disagreement to this aloof and unconcerned world position. "The Midlings, though far below us in knowledge and different in cultural custom, are still _people_, as much as we are!" they protested. "Once, our realm was no more advanced than theirs. We have now been fortunate enough to become the greatest land in the world-thus, we should be willing to help the rest of it in whatever way we can! In Middle Earth, there is oppressive evil that our military could defeat! There is tormenting sickness that our doctors could heal! There is _so_ much that we could _teach_ their needy masses! Is America so selfish in its own luxury and convenience that its people are unwilling to share even a little of their vast, enjoyed resources with others? Are the Midling people truly held with no value at all in our hearts?"

But such sentiments were generally answered: "That is foolish idealism. The risk to ourselves is too great to become involved. If Morgoth's servants learn of our existence, it will undoubtedly be henceforth in their greedy plans to rule us. However, when they perceive we are invincible to their medieval form of military conquest, they will then seek to subdue us through internal corruption. The sad truth is that Men are easily deceived and swayed by evil. Likely, in revealing ourselves to the outside world, we will ultimately open the door to our downfall. Morgoth's agents have too great a chance in successfully beguiling and corrupting our kindred-and we are a split people, some of our number possessed of too dangerous an inclination towards the desire for magical power or promised immortality. There is a very distinct possibility that both our government and our masses will fall-and can the terror of Morgoth's forces in possession of our nuclear power dare even be imagined? The United States of America stays out of Middle Earth's business-PERIOD! Let the Midlings develop on their own."

Thus was this common resolve entrenched deep within the hearts of the majority of the people; and with steadfastness, was it kept. For in the purpose to defend against any unpredictable attack that might ever suddenly assail them from the Outside-and also to prevent any renegades from treasonously attempting a trek to Middle Earth-America's government had developed an awesome military, based upon their potent machines, the majority of which they stationed in a solid ring around their land. Strange, fearful mechanical things which they called warships, submarines, tanks, and airplanes constantly patrolled the borders on the lookout for both foreigners and deserters. True, _such_ enormous precautions were perceived by some as ludicrous in light of their utter technological superiority in a possible conflict; but government officials and military officers were wary of the possibility of an attack which might somehow entail the use of _magic_, and thus, require the full force of their scientific technology to defeat. Thus, they deemed it wise to be utterly prepared, even for a worst case scenario.

South of the formal boundary of their realm, lay a smaller stretch of land the Americans had named South America. If their booming population ever exceeded the confines of their formal homeland, the Americans planned to migrate there. At present, however, the region was solely open to only the inhabitment of either the military or teams of scientists. South America was used for various things: test sites for scientific research, military bases, and other such practical needs.

Foremost, however, was it a natural reserve-for there sprawled upon it, for many miles, a great and beautiful forest which many Americans took a measure of pride in, and so allowed to thrive wild and unchecked. This sentiment of unindustrialization was a considerable deviation from typical American culture; for possessing in their relationship to Nature origins that were, not inimical, but adversarial, the general way in which their people perceived Nature was as a challenge to be struggled against and a tool to be mastered and used. Thus was much of their land dotted with massive cities and scores of machines, in place of where had once stood forests or open countryside. Hence, the preservation of the great forest of South America was well nigh their people's only great anomaly from this common established drive for industrialized progress.

At the time of the changing of the shape of Arda, when all paths were bent and the world was made round, the land of America had been folded to the other side of Arda's sphere, shifted to a place of loneliness and isolation. Thus, America really was almost another world. The Americans recorded their history in three great eras: the Ancient Age, when their ancestors had first come to the land and dwelt as one people; the Middle Ages, or, "the Dark Ages", when they had been dissolved into many different realms; and the Modern Age, which had begun at their reunion under Alexander the Great's conquest, and yet was flowing.

Thus, upon the world of Arda, the years passed, over the separate lands of Valinor, Middle Earth, and America. While Elvenhome and the Hither Lands, through the centuries, remained nearly untouched by the hands of time, however, in the hidden realm of America, change was welcome and flowed swiftly from moment to moment, ever bringing in its tide things new and henceforth unimagined. Within their secluded, self-created paradise, the people of America knew no fear of the shadow, nor of fell creatures of evil, nor of dark wars of conquest; from all of these dangers and woes, which belonged to Middle Earth, their isolated land was free and even blissfully unmindful of. And so, as time wore on, they grew ever less and less concerned with the threats of darkness which lurked across the sea upon the mysterious shores of Middle Earth, and more and more complacently carefree in the glow of their magnificent realm's blissful splendor and joyous glory, with the hearty thought that surely their security and happiness would never meet an end-for who would ever discover the secret of the Lost?

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**Preview**

_"What is wrong with her eyes?"_

_"I never lie."_

_"Is that the lady who lies all alone in the dark…?"_

_"Lord Denethor wishes to see you at once."_

_"Why do you cry?"_

_"My name is Mirathil."_

_"Are you a sunbeam?"_

_"Thou art a special child."_

_"I wish that you should have it now."_

**Stay tuned!!!**

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Thanks for reading; now please review!!!

**Miss E.D.**


	2. Mirathil of Gondor

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**Author's Notes:** O.K. Here we go. The real beginning.

Anyway, **about this chapter:** This first chapter may be a little different from what you were expecting after reading the prologue. But don't worry, this is going to be a _long, long_ story. Pumped up for the shock effect of Middle Earth culture clashing with ours and exciting action? Don't worry, it's coming. I have just about a chapter-by-chapter outline for this fic; and in this chapter, I'm starting to set up what I think is a really neat idea for the plot.

**Incidentally: **This is NOT a Mary-Sue--really, I promise. It may seem to some as though it has some Mary-Sue elements right now, but this is why: A fair part of this story is going to be **a mystery**-so I'm setting up some strange and unusual things that will slowly be explained in later chapters. It's NOT going to be a silly little magical or romantic fling of overdone anomalies for one character or a fawning romance. This is a pretty serious, and later on, _intensely themed_, story-hence, the PG-13 rating.

O.K., so that said…Thank you for reading and reviewing; I talk to reviewers in the ending Author's Notes. And the preview for the next chapter is posted right before that. Also, I try to update every 1-2 weeks.

**Miss) E.D.**

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**I**

The moon hung low over Minas Tirith, its ivory rays softly reflecting off the white stone of the enormous city to create an eerily dazzling effect. All the shadowed streets lay empty and silent under the glittering night sky, their paved cobble stone relaxing from the busy patter of feet which had trampled over its surface only a few hours earlier. From within every small, stony house, set closely between two other nearly identical ones, no light dimmed, no faint sound echoed-except from one.****

Through the narrow, open window of a small apartment on the third circular level, an unbroken strain of agonized cries was loudly piercing the night. After having flung open the faded wooden shutters, a tall dark haired man, his face pale with worry, rushed back to the side of the bed. "Do you feel the cool air? A breeze is coming in through the window now, Ilweth. Be strong, my Lady-it is almost past. Only a little longer…" Gently, he brushed back the sweaty light-brown locks of the woman lying on the low bed, straining with agony beneath her largely swollen stomach.

A slightly older woman shooed the nervous man aside. "You menfolk are nigh useless when it comes to bearing children," she spoke evenly, dabbing at the struggling woman's sweaty brow with a cool, damp cloth. "A drifting breeze does little to ease the pain of mothering, Eldoran. A maiden must simply endure her duty."

With a concerned countenance, the dark haired man gazed down at his wife. "Is the child nearly come, Mabril?" he asked.

"It is," the woman replied, kneeling beside the bed. "My firstborn came as such…yes," she spoke up quickly. "I can see the child, my Lord. Ilweth, do not cease to breathe! Spread your legs, wide apart; now push, Ilweth."

With excruciating effort, the ruddy woman on the bed did as she was told. Releasing a painful gasp, she forcefully began to contract her hips. As the seconds crawled by, a tortured scream ripped from her throat.

"I can nigh lay hands on the babe, Ilweth," encouraged the crouching woman. "Strive once more."

Her face crunched with strain, the pregnant woman pushed with all her might a final time-and then, suddenly, a shrill cry broke across the dim room. "It is over, Ilweth," smiled the midwife, slowly rising to her feet, a tiny, blood stained bundle in her arms. "You did well. Here-here is your child."

The woman's face lit up with a glow of purest joy, her taxed body wearily sinking into relaxation after the exhaustion of the difficult labor. "My child," she breathed softly. "Look, my Lord, it is our firstborn!" she weakly cried in excitement.

The man eagerly rushed upon the midwife. "What be it, Mabril?" he anxiously asked.

"It is a daughter," the woman calmly answered. "And what a beautiful babe she is-she will be a fair maiden someday," she smiled.

"Let me see her," cried the mother eagerly.

"Now, now, hold a moment, my Lord and Lady," the midwife spoke evenly, taking up some cloths. "She needs washing. I'll wrap her in this-a bit odd, this child of yours," she suddenly wondered, gazing down at her. "She bears neither of your likenesses-your daughter's hair is of gold."

"Gold?" puzzled the mother tiredly. "Do your eyes mislead you? Golden hair is not of either of our lines."

"Perhaps not, yet gold it is, nigh well white," replied the midwife, as she cleaned the blood from the infant's delicate skin.

The weary mother tilted her head, slowly blinking in curiosity. "What color are her eyes, Mabril? Are they such as mine or Eldoran's?"

"Her eyes still lay closed," answered the composed woman, wrapping the passive baby in a large grey cloth. "Let me try-oh stay, she's opening them. Oh, how swee-

The fondling woman suddenly ceased her affections, her face losing its placid expression of familiarity as its color grew pale. With widened eyes, the midwife nearly dropped the newborn as she let out a startled gasp. Her hands quivering, she brokenly faltered: "_What_…"

His face struck with worry, the father anxiously rushed to the midwife's side. "What is wrong?" he demanded fearfully. Upon throwing his nervous glance down upon the infant in her arms, however, the frantic man was also abruptly halted in speech and motion.

Her face grown white in alarm, the resting mother reeled up from the bed and nearly shouted at the two pallid, paralyzed people staring down at her child. "What is wrong?!" she cried. "What is wrong with her eyes?! Is she hurt?! Is my daughter hurt?!"

The two staring people made no answer, no singular responsive glance. With a desperate motion, the panicking mother tried to rise up onto her feet. "_Answer me_!" she tearfully pleaded. "What is wrong with my daughter?"

Finally snapping back to awareness, the midwife looked up at the frantic mother. "Ilweth, do not stand up!" she firmly verbalized. "It is well; nothing ails your child."

Unconvinced, the worried mother continued her attempt to reach her baby. "It is not well!" she cried. "Your faces speak ill!"

"Here, Ilweth, behold the child for yourself-but see if _you_ are not taken aback for a spell," the woman spoke grimly, walking from the foot of the bed to hand the infant to its mother.

With a fearful countenance, the brown haired woman quickly snatched the bundled baby out of the midwife's arms. Wildly throwing her gaze down upon her daughter's tiny face, however, the frantic mother was instantly rendered mutely motionless. After a small space, she finally broke her silence. "What trick of sorcery is this?" she tremulously whispered.

Coming to her side, her husband gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "I know not if it be sorcery, my Lady," he spoke. "But my heart loves this child; and this strangeness it rejoices in as a gift all her own."

"My Lord, it must be sorcery!" his wife insisted in alarm. "How can you look upon this sight with calm countenance? No such eyes belong to this world, whether to Men or to Elves!"

The lady spoke not over concernedly-staring curiously up at her, out of a tiny, pallid face, were two saucer-like purple eyes, their large irises randomly flecked with little dots of subtle silver highlights. In themselves, the enormous, starry violet orbs were beautiful to the point of being breathtaking; but overall, however, set in the child's small ivory face, their appearance inspired an effect more unnerving than attractive.

With a worried breath, the mother spoke. "Surely, something is greatly wrong; some bewitchment lies over this house. It is not possible for mortal child to come into this world with such a strangeness, when not even the Firstborn bear the like! My daughter has been enchanted, by a power perhaps evil! A curse may come upon this house."

"Do not fear so, Ilweth," tried the older woman, though hesitantly. "Some there are who bear eyes of such shade-once I did see a lady of Rhun whose eyes were of deep violet-"

"Violet?! 'Tis a mixed color of lavender and blue!" the mother fretfully exclaimed. "Canst thou not see, Mabril? Not the faintest hint of blue is there in these unnatural orbs! Their shade is _purple_, purple as a queen's robe! If thou namest them violet, thou speakest not in thought of the said eye hue, but of the violet blossom itself! And what shall explain these bright specks of silver which lay scattered throughout their space? They verily shimmer as the sparkling gems of diamonds! How canst thou not see the magic which must surely be at work here?"

Unpossessed of an answer, the midwife merely paled again and stared at the worried mother in helpless silence. The father, however, spoke firmly up. "Ilweth, I know not if a spell hang over this child as thou sayest; but one thing is certain-she is our firstborn, and to care for her is our duty, whether she carry a curse about her or no. Perhaps, this uncommon strangeness _is_ the work of a high magic; perhaps, it is a sign of her unforeseen significance within this world. Nonetheless, be this the proclamation of a high doom or a mere strange whim of nature, she will suffer no grief of fear or exclusion within the walls of her own home. Our daughter will be at the least to us as any other brown or blue-eyed maid that dwell in Minas Tirith. She deserves this much from her own kin-to be uncursed from birth as a herald of sorcery and doom," he finished authoritatively.

With a slow swallow, the mother looked back down upon the weirdly startling gaze of her newborn daughter. Drawing a breath, she made soft answer. "You speak well, my Lord. I would take back my earlier words. I do not look upon this child as a doom. Yet all the same, my heart fears still-what be the secret meaning or purpose of this? It has not been seen before, this marvel-not as is known to Men."

"Truly spoken," assented her husband. "Yet fear not too greatly, Ilweth. It is at the least far from an unsightly marvel. The child's eyes are wondrous fair, even in their strangeness, once the startle of them has passed. We all three stood struck dumb by their spectacle-canst thou envision what havoc they will play with the hearts of the young lads of the city when their proud owner is grown to maidenhood?" he smiled.

That merry thought temporarily absolving her disquiet, the mother beamed down at the baby in her arms and spoke proudly. "She will be the fairest maid in Minas Tirith-my daughter, the damsel of the hair of the sun and the eyes of the violet."

With a laugh, her husband squeezed her hand. "Perhaps, Ilweth; she is a most fair babe."

"Yes," agreed the mother rapturously. "Yes, she is _most_ fair…my Lord-we must give her a name," she suddenly realized.

"Indeed, you speak rightly, Ilweth," the man started. "What name would well befit her?"

"It must be an uncommon title and a lovely one, to match her person," the woman stipulated. Gazing down at her infant's large, violet eyes, she slowly pondered. As the child shifted its curious gaze to its father, the exquisite myriad of tiny silver highlights within its eyes caught and faintly reflected the soft shimmer of the moonlight streaming through the open window. Her breath catching in her throat, the mother slightly shivered at the unnatural spectacle. "An eerie sight, that," she murmured, still not entirely with pleasure. "Like the stars themselves-or a hoard of diamonds. Sparkling gems of silver in her eyes…" All at once, the musing mother abruptly started. "My Lord, what of that to be her name? 'Thil' bears the meaning of silver light, and 'mir' speaks of jewels. Her name should be Thilmir!" she exclaimed with delight.

The father slowly pondered. "I do not fancy the sound of that name," he finally spoke. "Let the name be turned about; call her 'Mirthil', instead."

For a moment, the woman thoughtfully considered that choice; then, she frowned. "My ears do not fancy the sound of Mirthil," she spoke. "The name is lacking of something-it needs of some final adornment."

With a blink, the midwife all at once chimed in. "Mirathil," she stated, almost to herself.

Both parents looked up. "What say you?" inquired the mother.

The midwife wonderingly met their gazes. "Mirathil," she repeated, a light suddenly dawning in her face. "It adds thy final fair adornment; and never before have I heard it spoken as a name for any other maid."

The father immediately frowned. "The Elvish root is 'mir', not 'mira', Mabril. 'Mirathil' is not a true name."

"With the fame her strange eyes shall surely bring, she can easily make it a true name, Eldoran," insisted the midwife. "It is a title both lovely and unshared by any other-flawlessly befitting of your daughter.

The man shook his head. "It is not a true name," he persisted. "We can not bestow it as though it is."

"Oh, Eldoran-

"Mabril, you are a midwife, not the child's mother," the man interjected firmly. Ignoring the glumness of the woman's face, he turned his head to his wife. "What other name doth come to your mind, Ilweth?" he asked her.

The reclining woman made no answer, however, lost in thoughtful pondering. "Mirathil," she softly murmured.

Abruptly, her husband started. "Oh, Ilweth, I pray you-

"Mirathil!" she interjected brightly. "Oh, Eldoran, my ears and heart love the sound of that name! My thanks, Mabril! It is perfect for her!"

The midwife beamed as the distraught man fervently protested. " 'Mirathil', in despite of its loveliness and its befitment, is not a true name, my Lady! Would you have her mocked for her title?"

"Some may mock, but I believe that Mabril speaks truly," declared the elated woman. "The uncommonness of her eyes' beauty will win her name's approval; and if it doth not, my heart still will love and desire the name that she bears. Verily, it is a perfect choice," she whispered.

With a defeated sigh, the man gave in to his wife. "Very well, my Lady, her name shall be as you say. I can not live with your despondence if your heart is denied its wish in this matter. Nonetheless, I hold the choice to be absurd."

"Oh, Eldoran, cheer thyself, in the name of the Valar!" the midwife spoke in annoyance, as she gathered up the cloths and bowl of water she had used to wash the infant, casting a warm sidewise glance at the enraptured woman affectionately doting on her child. "It is a strange and beautiful name, fashioned to be held by only your daughter. And a slight error of Elvish roots is scarce even noticeable by most in these days."

"Yes," the man reluctantly agreed, after a moment's silence. "I see that you do speak truly; Ilweth, sure are you that you will remain pleased by this name even if it doth not come to meet with approval?"

"Yes," his wife assured him, fondling her child. "Yet will I be glad in my choice of it, my Lord, have no worry."

With a warm smile, her husband crossed to her side. He knew his wife; if she spoke that she would never regret a thing, then it was so. Tenderly, he gazed down at the beautiful baby, whose bizarre eyes were now shut in sleep. Lovely as they were, to a small degree, the release from the overpowering sight of them was relieving. With a breath, the awestruck man whispered to his wife. "She is so beautiful, Ilweth."

"Yes," breathed the glowing woman rapturously. "Our daughter is the most beautiful babe in all the world. Little Mirathil," she sighed lovingly.

Her husband smiled, his eyes aglow with love and pride. "Mirathil…It is not such a foolish name after all, is it?" he finally admitted.

"No," his wife laughed softly. "No, it isn't. My pretty little Mirathil."

With a smile, the midwife finished her tidying of the room, and left the beaming couple to themselves. Stepping out into the cool night, she cast a long glance upward at the sparkling stars adorning the ebony sky, remembering the similar jewels of silver which faintly glistened within the eyes of her friend's child and had given rise to her unique and beautiful name. Even more vivid in her mind, however, was the indelible branding on her memory of the child's exquisitely unnatural purple shade of eye color. Never before in her life had she beheld anything so strikingly lovely, as simultaneously eerie as it was. With a soft murmur, the musing woman thoughtfully reflected upon the strangely beautiful infant girl. "Purple-eyed Mirathil."

**II**

With an enraptured smile, the two-year-old girl softly caressed the blue and white petals of the bunch of wildflowers which stood in the little brown mug on the little brown table that she leaned over, wobbly perched upon a tall wooden chair. Releasing a contented sigh, the little girl leaned down and tenderly kissed the fragrant blossoms, her pale golden curls falling past her lowered cheek to obscure her face.

"_Mirathil_," a moderately stern voice slowly called to her.

With a flustered start, the dreamy child awoke from her pleasant reverie and lifted her head up from the mug's lovely floral arrangement. Blinking, she turned around atop the high wooden chair to face the party which had addressed her.

Eyeing her authoritatively, her mother crossed her arms. "What have I told you about standing on that chair?" she reminded seriously.

Her large purple eyes widening, the little girl carefully climbed down as fast as she could. Then, she scurried over to her mother, her grey dress softly rustling on the wooden floor. Hugging the folds of her mother's dress, she spoke in a high, apologetic tone. "I'm sorry, Mama; I can not remember."

With a helpless smile, the woman lost her disciplinary countenance and reached down to pat her daughter's silky golden head. "It is all right, Mirathil; but if you forget again, I will have to punish you a little. You must remember; it is dangerous for you to stand on that chair. You are very young, and you may fall off and hurt yourself."

"I know," the little girl replied in her high, clear tone. "But I forgot when I saw them."

"Yes, you saw the flowers," her mother smiled. "They are very fair, are they not, Mirathil?"

"Yes! I am glad he gave them to me!" the child giggled, burying her face in her mother's dress.

Blinking, Ilweth knelt down and gently tilted her daughter's face up to hers. The child's enormous purple eyes happily glanced up at her, their scattered silver highlights all asparkle. The mother tilted her head in confusion. "What mean you, Mirathil?" she asked.

"I like the flowers," her child replied. "When he gave them to me, it made me happy."

For a moment, Ilweth looked at Mirathil with a puzzled expression; then she smiled and playfully messed up her daughter's curly hair. "Oh, Mirathil, you teasing child! You know that I put the flowers on the table this morning," she laughed.

Mirathil laughed with her. "I saw you put them there," she told her.

"Yes, Child," the mother smiled, kissing her daughter's forehead. "So why do you tease that someone gave them to you? You know, you should not lie."

Mirathil smiled. "I never lie, Mama; I meant the other flowers," she stated.

Ilweth blinked. "What?" she asked.

"He did not give me _your_ flowers," the little girl explained. "He gave me the other flowers that looked like yours."

Ilweth started. "Who gave you flowers, Mirathil?"

"I do not know," the little girl answered. "But he smiled at me."

"When did he give them to you?" questioned her mother.

"When I looked at your flowers," Mirathil replied. "I liked them on the table; and then, he smiled at me and gave me the same flowers as yours. And I was so happy, I climbed onto the chair to touch them."

"Where did you put the flowers, Mirathil?" Ilweth asked her.

Mirathil blinked; then, she pointed over to the table. "You put the flowers there, Mama," she told her.

"I know; Mirathil, show me where you put the flowers you were given," explained her mother.

Mirathil looked at her, puzzled. "Mama, he did not give them to me," she said.

Ilweth blinked. "Mirathil, you told me how someone gave you flowers," she reminded her.

Mirathil nodded. "I know, he did." She said no more.

Ilweth looked at her in confusion. "Then, where are they?" she asked.

"I do not have them," Mirathil answered her, also seemingly confused.

"Did you lose them?" her mother inquired.

Mirathil blinked, shaking her head. "No…he never gave them to me," she replied.

Ilweth's face became stern. "Mirathil, you make no sense. You are lying; stop teasing and speak the truth," she ordered.

Mirathil looked back at her blankly. "I never lie, Mama," she said.

"You _are_ lying, Mirathil," Ilweth told her. "You told me that someone gave you flowers, and then you told me that you never were given any flowers; you are telling two tales. That is a lie."

Mirathil insistently shook her head. "He gave me the flowers, Mama. I was looking at the flowers on the table; and then I saw him and he gave the same flowers to me. So I climbed the chair because then I liked them more. But no one gave me flowers; I do not have them…but I do need to find that stone," she said.

Ilweth was both bemuddled and exasperated. "Mirathil, you are speaking lies," she spoke disappointedly. "Sit down in the corner; you can not play for the rest of the day."

Mirathil blinked in confusion. "But, Mama-

"Go," the mother ordered, turning her around in the direction of the corner by the fireplace. "I must teach you not to speak lies, Mirathil."

"I never lie, Mama!" Mirathil protested.

"Do not speak anymore," her mother spoke sternly. "You are lying now. Go to the corner and sit down; and do not move until I tell you you may."

With a puzzled expression, the little girl slowly crossed the room to the dusty corner and sat down. She looked back at her mother, but she had risen and turned away, beginning to sweep the floor. Blinking sadly, Mirathil pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin on the coarse grey fabric of her dress. She never lied; why did Mama say that she did? She had told her what had happened; why could she not understand? Oh, never mind. Averting her large violet eyes to the wall, Mirathil began to daydream. Sitting still wasn't a punishment for her; all she had to do to pass the long day was to entertain the delightful fancies of her own imagination. And so, until her mother finally called her out of her corner for dinner, she did, never growing dull for a moment.

**III**

Even as Ilweth herself had done at her birth, there were those who upon beholding the unnatural eyes of Mirathil's face, paled in fear or at least apprehension and whispered among themselves that a strange bewitchment lay over the child of Eldoran and Ilweth. The distinct peculiarity of Mirathil's temperament and demeanor did not help in this matter; for although Mirathil was by no means a naughty child or even a mischievous one, she did possess in exceeding quantities odd and unusual mannerisms. Whereas other children, after a considerable time of observation, could have their general natures analyzed and comprehended, Mirathil seemed to be an unending, ever-expanding enigma. Even Ilweth herself, the girl's own mother, had at last wearily remarked to her husband that she was nearly at her wit's end in attempting to understand the child. Whatever one supposed that she would say or do in a certain situation, one was nearly always wrong; and regardless of observing her day in and day out in the purpose of learning her nature to the extent of being able to accurately predict her reaction in a given environment, when the test came, the girl would unfailingly react in a manner completely unforeseen by even those who knew her best-so much so, that sometimes, even those who were close to her and could say that they "knew her best" would wonder whether it were possible that any could know her at all. Indeed, there were some who whispered among themselves that Mirathil had truly had some mysterious spell laid upon her at birth, by Elvish sorcery or some other such inscrutable art, whereby she had come by such strange eyes and nature.

But, despite the general confusion that the oddity of her being created in those around her, Mirathil was often yet well liked; for she had such a joy in her countenance and gentleness in her bearing that people could often not help but smile upon her, amidst their doubt and apprehension. And, of course, the adorable charm of her beauty served to aid in this matter, as among most it always will.

Yet a few there were among Eldoran and Ilweth's peers who, notwithstanding her good characteristics, did not approve of their unearthly daughter; and one of these was their neighbor Morwen. Morwen was the wife of a man called Angon, who lived directly left to the house of Eldoran and Ilweth. It could be said of her that the only thing of herself darker than her long flowing tresses was her mistrust of anything which she deemed too great of a deviation from general normality to be acceptable; and Mirathil, with her eyes and her demeanor, was about the greatest and, in her opinion, the most unacceptable, deviation from general normality that she had ever encountered. Yet, Morwen held with Ilweth what for lack of a better word might be termed a friendship of sorts; thus, did she strive to tolerate Mirathil, though oftentimes, in beholding the child staring at her with her enormous purple eyes, she would secretly suppress a shudder, wishing that the girl might turn her unnatural gaze elsewhere.

At any rate, however, like her friend Ilweth, Morwen herself was also gifted with a daughter-a five year old girl whom she had named Finiel. Now Finiel, as was rapidly becoming known to the people of Minas Tirith's third level, was very like to her mother in her apprehension of things unnatural or uncommon to her experience; yet, unlike her mother, this sentiment was tempered by a possessed streak of curiosity. Thus, though Finiel was a bit unnerved by the daughter of her neighbors, the young girl strongly desired to play with Mirathil, to watch and see the strange things that everyone said she would do.

Thereby did she constantly beg her mother on this matter; and though Morwen was at first ill-disposed to the notion, in the end she yielded-at the final prompting of her husband who opinioned that she was irrationally suspicious of a mere two year old girl, who was the daughter of their neighbors and their friends, for the sake of the Valar! And so, Finiel at last received her wish; on a certain day, Mirathil was invited to play at the house of Angon and Morwen.

With great cheerfulness did she arrive, for she loved the promise of fun; and Finiel, she soon decided, was a worthy companion. Indeed, being remarkably intelligent for her age, Mirathil had soon found that she grew rather bored in trying to play with the two year old children of her own age; thus, in the more mature company of five year old Finiel, she was refreshed and stimulated.

Finiel, for her part, was not stimulated in the companionship of Mirathil so much by friendship as by a kind of curious fascination. The little purple-eyed girl who consistently lost herself in a state of daydreams or spoke some queer, nonsensical thing which caused her mother to grimace in annoyance was a subject of most intense interest to young, inquisitive Finiel. And upon interacting with her, Finiel found that the adults of her parents' circle had spoken truly; Mirathil was indeed in every way completely unpredictable, even to the degree that it could verily become annoying.

One day, as the two girls were playing on her mother's bed, Finiel made a grave announcement concerning her future. "When I am grown, I will have seven children-four daughters and three sons. My sons will be great warriors, and my daughters will be fair maidens, each with raven black hair, such as my mother's." As she spoke, her blue-green eyes lit up with a keen pride.

Tilting her golden head, Mirathil blinked at her companion. "No, you will not," she said.

Finiel glanced at her in surprise. "Yes, I will," she reiterated. "Why do you say that I will not?"

Mirathil began idly twirling one of her golden curls around her finger. "I know you will not," she answered evenly.

"How do you know?" Finiel questioned.

"You have two sons," replied Mirathil. "And one of them is a soldier, but the other is a carpenter. And you have one daughter; she is a fair maiden, but her hair is brown, not black. I am happy for you!" Mirathil suddenly exclaimed, reaching over to hug her friend.

Finiel, however, drew away in annoyance. "Mirathil, you can not know what my children will be," she spoke condescendingly. "Stop speaking so childishly."

Mirathil blinked. "But I know, Finiel," she insisted.

"How?" the five year old asked her.

"I saw your children-well, I think they are your children because they were talking to someone, and they spoke that their mother was Finiel," Mirathil mused.

Finiel flipped a lock of her brown hair back in annoyance. "Mirathil, you did not see my children. They are not born yet," she spoke.

"I saw them," Mirathil insisted.

Finiel crossed her arms in irritation. "You did not see anyone; there is no one in this room but us," she stated practically.

Mirathil nodded. "I know; but I saw them," she repeated.

Aroused to aggravation, Finiel lashed out at her two year old companion. "Mirathil, you are a liar!"

"I am not!" Mirathil shouted indignantly.

"Yes, you are!" Finiel retorted. "You lie all the time about seeing things; you should be punished!"

"I NEVER LIE!!!" Mirathil shrilly screamed at the top of her lungs, her huge purple eyes filling up with tears.

At that moment, Morwen suddenly threw open the door of her bedchamber and rushed into the room. "What is happening in here?" she demanded.

Honestly upset by the verbal attack against her dream, Finiel, along with Mirathil, burst into tears. "Mirathil says I will not have children!" she sobbed.

"What?!" her mother exclaimed.

"That is not true!" cried Mirathil. "I said that she would have three children, but she wanted seven, and she is angry with me!"

Ignoring Mirathil's words, Morwen took her weeping daughter up into her arms. "Shhh," she whispered soothingly. "Finiel, it is all right."

"Why are you sad, Finiel?" Mirathil implored her friend, endeavoring to restore a state of peace. "Three children is good."

"I can seven children if I want to!" Finiel shouted back. "Mama, tell her that I can!"

"Of course you can, Finiel," her mother soothed her. With a hard countenance, Morwen turned to Mirathil. "Mirathil, you should not say how many children Finiel will bear. You do not know that," she rebuked her.

"But I do know!" Mirathil protested. "I saw them; she has three children, two sons and one daughter!"

"I do not!" Finiel shouted, lifting her head back from her mother's dress to glare at the two year old girl. "You can not know that! I have three sons and four daughters! You are a liar!"

Mirathil's little face flushed a shade of scarlet, her anger at last aroused by her friend's unjust accusation. "If I can not know how many children you have, then how can you?!" she struck out.

"I want seven children, and I will have them!" Finiel shouted back at her.

"No, you will not!" yelled Mirathil.

"Yes, I will!"

"No, you will not!"

"Yes, I will!"

"No, you will not!"

"YES, I WILL!!!"

"NO, YOU WILL NOT!!!"

"SILENCE, MIRATHIL!!!" Morwen shouted. Immediately, both girls ceased their quarrel at the adult woman's angered tone.

Blinking up at her, Mirathil tried to make Finiel's mother understand. "But-

"I said to be quiet, Mirathil!" Morwen ordered sternly. "I am telling you to stop this nonsense! You have not seen Finiel's children!"

"_But I have!_" Mirathil sobbed, breaking down into tears.

"You are a liar!" Finiel angrily accused.

"Yes, you are!" Morwen spoke harshly.

Snapping her head up, Mirathil furiously glared back at both of them. "I AM NOT!!!" she loudly screamed.

Setting her daughter back onto the bed, Morwen reached down and slapped Mirathil across her mouth. "You will not scream in my house," she spoke sternly. "And you will not speak lies to and upset my daughter. I am taking you home, Mirathil. Get down off the bed."

With a tremulous expression, Mirathil obediently slid down off of the bed onto her feet. Looking up at Morwen, she tried again to explain what she had seen; but before she opened her mouth, the glowering woman pointed her hand towards the doorway. "Walk with me," she ordered.

Blinking fearfully, Mirathil did as she was told; Morwen led her out of the house and around to that of her parents. Rapping smartly at the door, Morwen silently simmered as she waited for it to be opened. When Ilweth finally answered it, a few streaks of dishwater staining the front of her dress, Morwen reached down and pushed Mirathil inside. "I do not know how you are rearing your daughter, Ilweth," the raven haired woman spoke coolly. "But it would be well if you began to teach her the evil of a false tongue. Your child has deeply upset my daughter with her nonsensical lies, and until she has learned the art of speaking the truth, Finiel will not see her again. I do not want my daughter to acquire the practice of tale-telling from yours." With that, Morwen unceremoniously turned away and began walking back to her house.

Her face possessed of a startled expression, Ilweth called after her. "Morwen!" But her voice was cut off by the loud shutting of Morwen's door. Her offended neighbor gone, Ilweth looked down at her daughter in bewilderment. "Mirathil, what did you say to anger Finiel's mother so?" she inquired.

Mirathil trembled. "I only told Finiel that she would have three children, not seven as she said she would; and she grew angry with me," the little girl related.

"But, Mirathil, neither you nor Finiel could know how many children either of you will bear," her mother told her, leaning down to brush away her tears.

"But _I_ did know," Mirathil insisted. "I saw her children!"

"What?" Ilweth exclaimed, ceasing her motherly comfort.

"I saw her children, Finiel had three!" Mirathil emphasized, aggravated that that truth had been so many times denounced. "There were two sons and one-

"Mirathil!" her mother spoke sternly, standing up and crossing her arms. "I have warned you about making up tales; now I am going to have to punish you."

Mirathil started. "But, Mama-

"Go inside the house," Ilweth ordered.

An hour later, Mirathil was sitting dejectedly in the corner beside the fireplace, angry tears sliding down her cheeks. She had told the truth; and no one believed her. No one ever believed her! Everyone always said she was lying, even Mama-Mama spanked her for it. Mirathil sniffed. Maybe she should stop telling people about the things she saw; maybe she should stay quiet all the time, so she wouldn't be punished. But Mirathil didn't think she could do that; when she saw something, she felt as though she had to tell it-as if she was supposed to tell it. If people would only listen! She still couldn't fathom it-why could they not understand? It made perfect sense: She saw something; and when you see something, of course it is real; and so, she told people about it. What was so strange and impossible about that?

Mirathil mused tearfully. Mama had told her that she must tell Finiel she was sorry and that she did not know how many children she would have. But she had told her mother earnestly that she could not do that-it would be a lie because she did know. Her mother had spanked her again and then told her to go do what she had said; but, of course, she had had to again refuse. Mirathil blinked sadly. She loved her Mama, and she wouldn't disobey her; but, of course, she couldn't tell a lie, even if Mama told her to-it was wrong, she knew in her uttermost soul that it was. Everyone called her a liar, but she hated lying more than anything else she knew, she would never do it! But Mama hadn't believed her; and neither had Father. When spanking her, to their great surprise, had not made her obey them, they had sternly declared that she would sit in the corner by the fireplace and not eat with them until she had done as they said and told Finiel that she had not seen anything about her children. And so, here she was.

Pulling her knees to her chest, Mirathil buried her damp face in her rough brown dress. She would have to stay here forever; she could never lie about seeing Finiel's children. That would be horribly wrong, and she would never do it, not even if she never got to leave the corner again.

Thus, to Eldoran and Ilweth's astonishment, Mirathil did not cry out to them at dinnertime that she was ready to obey them. With a concerned countenance, Ilweth turned to her husband. "Eldoran," she spoke, "shall we really not feed the child? She is young, and perhaps this punishment is too harsh for her body to endure. I expected that when we voiced our threat, she would change her mind; but now that it comes to it, her mood is entirely unchanged. I wonder if we should forego this punishment and let her eat."

"No," Eldoran answered. "Her mood will change when she beholds us eating, Ilweth; we must not let our daughter's will prevail over ours. That will only encourage her further in rebellion."

So, the husband and wife sat down at the wooden table to eat their dinner. Glancing over to the corner, they looked at their daughter. Mirathil was eyeing them miserably but silently. "You may eat your dinner when you obey us, Mirathil," Eldoran told her. Mirathil stared back at him blankly. Eldoran frowned. "Are you ready to tell Finiel and her mother the truth-that you did not see anything?" he asked her.

Mirathil shook her golden haired head. "I can not do that," she stated sadly.

Both her parents blinked in surprise. "Are you not hungry, Mirathil?" Ilweth inquired.

Mirathil nodded. "Yes," she answered, "but I can not tell a lie; so I can not eat." She thought for a moment. "Does that I mean I will starve, Mama? Will I die?"

Poor Ilweth was actually taken aback and stammering for an answer; she felt flooded with guilt at her daughter's pitiful question and was nearly ready to relent, feeling as though she were a cruel monster. But Eldoran was not thus so easily influenced. "No, Mirathil, you will not," he answered her evenly, "because you will not continue to act in this way. When you grow hungry enough, you will decide to obey us."

Mirathil sadly shook her head. "No, I will not," she somberly told her father. "I _can_ not; but I still need to find that stone."

Ignoring his daughter's solemn vow and final nonsensical statement, Eldoran turned his head away from the corner and resumed eating his dinner. Ilweth hesitated a moment, holding her child's tearful gaze a bit longer; then, she too went back to her dinner. And Mirathil sighed and looked away from both of them, trying to take her mind off of her hunger with the conjuring of a blissful fantasy.

The next morning, Ilweth and Eldoran were again both astonished when their daughter, awaking in her solitary corner, forewent her breakfast, still refusing to submit to their word. With a worried expression, Ilweth again turned to her husband. "She still will not yield, Eldoran," she spoke. "I fear for her health; please, though I agree she should remain in her corner, may we not relent on the matter of the food?"

But Eldoran emphatically shook his head. "She will yield, Ilweth," he assured her. "She is but a child. Give her time, and you will see."

So, the couple went on with their resolve; but throughout the day, they were increasingly amazed to find that Mirathil also went on with hers. At lunch, dinner, and several other times in the long hours of the day, they would ask of her if she was ready to obey them, reminding her that she could leave her corner and eat as soon as she was. But each time their offer was given, it was just as instantly as the prior time refused; and when the sun had set, Ilweth again approached her husband in great concern. "My Lord," she said worriedly, "I know it be a frail thing for a parent to give in to the will of a child; but in this matter, I feel I must urge it nonetheless. Our daughter is too young to suffer this manner of chastisement; and I fear that, in the peculiar oddness of her nature, she will not yield, as would other children, 'ere her health has suffered. I implore you-allow me to feed the child, before she grows ill!"

Eldoran, however, would not be swayed. "She-will-yield, Ilweth," he maintained emphatically. "No child, however strong willed, will continue to prevail against hunger so long that their parents are thus compelled to give in."

"I do not know that it be she is so strong willed, my Lord," Ilweth worried, gazing at her daughter. "It is rather something that touches only on this particular matter-lying. For all her practice of tale-telling, I have come to believe that somehow, she truly believes she is right in denying that she has done wrong; and that thus, strangely convicted, she will _not_ yield, holding, as she sees, to some resolution of goodness."

"I deem you place too high a value on our daughter's loyalty to goodness, let alone her acquired maturity," Eldoran smiled. "Beside that-if she were thus so pure, she would ne'er have spoken lies, Ilweth; but stay on-I hold that she is wondrous stubborn, and will 'ere long yield her will to ours. You will see."

Thus, did the day pass; and the next; and the one after that-until finally, Eldoran did at last begin to falter in his conviction. To his mounting incredulousness, he beheld his two year old daughter growing paler and weaker every day-but yet, _no_ weaker in her defiance of their command, though her voice itself grew steadily frailer. Though they allowed her water, they withheld all food, thinking that no child could have it in their young heart to go on forever, that surely soon her will would break; yet ever Mirathil looked back at them with the same maintained determination in her violet eyes, the same stubborn resolve.

And finally, an hour came when a pale-faced Ilweth rushed upon her husband with a terrified scream. "Eldoran!" she cried. "Come with haste-our daughter has passed into darkness in her corner!"

Dropping his work, Eldoran dashed back to the room where abided his disciplined daughter; and there, within the dusty corner by the fireplace, even as his wife had shrieked, lay Mirathil, unconsciously slumped against the wall. In beholding her wan, pale little face, drawn with hunger and weariness, Eldoran was all at once overcome by a flood of guilt and worry. Rushing over to her, he scooped his young daughter up in his arms and hurriedly carried her to the bedroom. "Bring warm milk, Ilweth!" he called over his shoulder. "And hot broth!" As his wife scurried off to fetch her instructed foodstuffs, her hand cast fearfully over her mouth, Eldoran gently laid his daughter down on the bed, worriedly stroking her pale golden hair.

Over the next half-hour, Eldoran and Ilweth slowly revived their daughter, alternating between pouring milk down her throat and spooning into her mouth a steaming broth from a small wooden bowl. At last, Mirathil re-awoke to a steady state of consciousness; but she was far from well. For the next few days, Mirathil could barely manage to keep anything down other than water, quivering with sweat when she knelt over a designated pot. At last, however, her body recovered from its ordeal of starvation, and her face regained its fullness and color.

Then, Eldoran and Ilweth were filled with amazement at the fortitude of their young daughter and spoke to one another in astoundment. "_Never_ have I seen such a child!" Eldoran declared. "Her will is as strong as the stone of this city; it is a wonder which ought to be sung! Did any ever hear of a child so young prevailing against the will of their parents in the face of starvation? What manner of child is this that you have borne, Ilweth?"

But Ilweth answered: "It is not a will of strength nor stubbornness which kept her unyielding through the trial of hunger, my Lord. This child, I will hold, for all her lies, yet believes in her deepest heart that she is the one of right somehow and we the ones of wrong. In this matter, I fear we may never prevail; for if her fortitude is such as this in the days of her earliest youth, who can foresee to what unfathomable extent it will grow in the waxing of her years? I say this: Punishment is dealt out thus to effect change. Therefore, if no change will be effected therefrom, it is futile to continue to employ it. I counsel that we chastise Mirathil no more in this odd matter, but seek rather to learn the cause behind it-to come to understand the reason for which she holds to this mad habit of tale-telling with such unshakable resolve, and _thereby_, come to know how thus to fashion an end of it."

And Eldoran, in listening to his wife's counsel, judged that it was good and wisely spoken. So, did Ilweth and Eldoran lay punishment on their daughter for her falsely given tales no more; and Mirathil rejoiced, thinking that perhaps, her parents at last had come to understand. But from then onward, did Eldoran and Ilweth begin to carefully observe their daughter in all activities of her life, sometimes putting far-reaching questions to her, in a steady attempt to discover the obscure reason of her habitual invention of imaginary tales.

**IV**

If the neighbor to the left of the household of Eldoran and Ilweth henceforth maintained a well-expressed disposition of coolest contempt toward their strangely peculiar daughter, it could be warmly appreciated by the discouraged couple that the neighbor to the right of them found it in her nature to express an even more keenly felt disposition of the completely opposite attitude toward Mirathil-when, in need of encouragement, the wearied couple could always turn without worry to their old friend, Mabril the Midwife.

Mabril, the middle-aged woman who had helped to deliver Mirathil on the night of her birth, was a good-natured, ruddy-cheeked woman who, as previously stated, lived just to the right of Eldoran and Ilweth-and being a bit further along in years than her acquainted neighbors, had a bustling family of five, all joyfully rambunctious boys. Her husband, a rather stern kind of man by the name of Belmog, was a skilled carpenter, whose keenest desire in the world was that all of his sons should be thus dutifully trained so as to carry on his noble trade in their manhood. Though Mabril was unfalteringly devoted to her husband and children, it was often the case that her keenest desire in the world, however, was for a spell of peace and quiet; and thus it partially was that the good midwife so enjoyed the company of Mirathil. For Mabril being necessarily a woman of great patience, she was little troubled or even unnerved by the odd whims and vagaries of a two year old girl, however peculiar they may be. And moreover, the often exasperated midwife found in her neighbors' passive, obedient little daughter a welcome refreshment from her own unruly children.

Thus it was that oftentimes, Mirathil would go together with her parents to pay a visit to the bordering house of Mabril; and coming to awareness of the genial midwife's affection for her, it was not long 'ere a happy Mirathil was permitted to make short calls to her on her own. Indeed, Mirathil grew to love such visits to the little house which stood to the right of her own; when she arrived, Mabril would always fly to greet her, her oval face glowing with color, her hazel-brown eyes sparkling with delight. Scooping her up in her arms, the cheerful midwife would always tell her how she was the prettiest little girl she had ever laid eyes upon, and the sweetest too, and then planting a kiss on her cheek, proceed to carry her over to where her younger boys played on the floor.

This aspect of her visits, however, came to be the only part of them which Mirathil dreaded. As much as she adored Mabril, she did not adore her five boys. Oh, on her first encounter with them, she had thought them nice enough and been open to their friendship; however, she had soon discovered that every one of them was considerably less open to hers. For some reason which she could not comprehend, the five boys were ill-disposed to play with a girl, most particularly a girl so young, whom they condescendingly pronounced "a baby." And truth be told, though initially put off by the rejection, in a short while, Mirathil came to regard it as a merciful provision for her sanity; for after observing the rough, often foolhardy games which the troop of boys were fond to engage in, the little girl decided that she would not much enjoy playing with them anyway and was thankful of the fact that they never asked her to.

They did, however, often delight in teasing her for a brief spell of her visit, namely when she first arrived; with loud hoots and howls, the five boys would pull out her golden curls from her head and then rapidly release them, fascinated by the smart bounciness with which they immediately sprang back into place. Mirathil endured this generally tolerably and with no malice toward Mabril, who did nothing to quell it; for Mirathil understood that the scurrying woman was only too busy to notice everything that went on around her, and before long, the boys would at last tire of their annoying game and disperse outside to frolic in the fresh air and sunshine. And it was then that, with the raucous boys outside and Mabril finally sitting down at her freshly-scrubbed brown table to take a moment's well-earned rest, that Mirathil would happily approach her for a rich outpouring and receiving of affection.

To Mirathil, Mabril became almost a second mother; and the good midwife even went so far as to assure her parents that if anything ever happened to them, they need have no cause for worry-she would look after their daughter. And truly, the warmest manner of friendship did exist between Eldoran and Ilweth and Mabril the midwife-and even her husband on occasion, though he was not so congenial as she. Often was the occasion that the young family of Eldoran would make long visits to their neighbor's cheerful, if chaotic, household, to eat, to laugh, to sing, and to make talk long into the hours, as a troup of merry friends delights to do such things.

Thus it was that on one day, in the course of one of the longest visits which had ever been paid to the house of Mabril, Mirathil began to be greatly confused; looking about her, she saw the faces of her parents and her beloved neighbor's dull and downcast, and heard their voices devoid of any ease or joy. Instead, they three were speaking one to the other in low, seemingly rueful, and utterly serious tones, their expressions betraying a matter of great importance and grief. In the very next moment, Belmog, Mabril's husband entered the small room, the same somber countenance etched on his characteristically disinterested face. Now Mirathil knew that it was indeed a matter of deepest importance, for Mabril's husband made conversation so rarely with the rest of the adults, that his presence must signify an issue so great it pertained to practically everybody.

Inquisitively tilting her golden head, Mirathil scurried up to the two couples just in time to behold her mother wipe a glistening tear from her eye. Stunned, Mirathil earnestly inquired into the deep, pervading sense of grief which had utterly taken them all. "What is wrong?" she asked in her high, clear little tone. "Why do all your faces look so sad?"

With a sigh to the others, Ilweth took Mirathil up into her arms. "Mirathil," she started, "do you remember what we taught you about the rulership of Gondor?"

Mirathil blinked. "Yes," she answered. Drawing her little body up into the most somber stance, she evenly recited with an air of much practice: "Our Steward is the Lord Denethor who rules and protects us; his wife is the Lady Finduilas, the Lady of Gondor; his eldest son…_Oh_…I can not remember…but there are two of them-

"Yes, Mirathil, that will do," her mother said, smiling for a moment despite herself; but in the next moment, the smile was gone. "There is a grave matter in all the city now, Mirathil-the Lady Finduilas is become very ill. And perhaps, it may be that she will even die."

Mirathil's violet eyes widened; for a moment, she was silent. Then, strangely softly, she spoke: "Is that the lady who lies all alone in the dark in the great black bed-and whose face grows paler and paler-and who cries in the night because her sons are not allowed into the dark room to see her?"

All four adults abruptly started. "Mirathil…" Ilweth breathed. For a moment, she looked at her daughter with a sudden, strange expression, almost somehow-a _fearful_ one. Then, with a swallow, she regained her even countenance. "Where have you heard of the Lady Finduilas's illness, Mirathil? Did Finiel speak of it to you 'ere we came here?"

"No, Finiel loves me no longer," Mirathil spoke with a sad shake of her head. "I saw her; I saw her all alone, and it made me sad so that I could not play. She is in pain, Mama; and I still have not found the stone," she added tearfully.

Again, all four adults faltered, a strange expression momentarily aroused in each one of their eyes; but again, in the next moment, the heavy silence was broken, this time by Eldoran. "My Mirathil has the gift of so keen a mind, that often, in the telling to her of a thing, she may conjure forth an impressive description of it. The grief of the matter is that, of a child's dream though it be, I fear such rue falls not too far from the truth. Gondor may only hope that her Lady grows well again-and be strong and fair once more." The other three adults nodded in somber agreement, their eyes displaying a faint hint of pride.

But Mirathil's violet eyes filled with tears and with purest sorrow, she gently shook her head. "Nay," she whispered. "It is sad-the Lady is fair and gentle-but she shall die. And everyone will weep that night." At that, the little girl began to softly cry, as if foreshadowing her mournful statement.

Ilweth, however, was honestly angered. "Mirathil, this is not a time to weave tales," she firmly rebuked. "We must all speak in hope that the Lady Finduilas will grow well; it is a shameful thing for you to say that she shall die."

Mirathil, too distraught in her genuine sorrow over her tragic monologue, for once did not give even a slight care to her mother's chastisement of her "tales". Instead, she merely shook her head again and morbidly remarked: "The Lady does not grow well; she dies. She leaves those who love her in anguish and loneliness. And everyone weeps."

"Mirathil, stop this now!" Ilweth nearly shouted. "Do not spin tales about your rulers and _do not_ say that you do not lie!" she cut her off as she started to open her mouth in protest. "Go and play by thyself until we call you."

And so, with a glum face, Mirathil did. Her parents, more than a little embarrassed by their daughter's apparent lack of respect for both them and her sovereign, by lengths at last managed to restore their sense of calm and ease among their friends. But when they arrived back at their own home, Eldoran and Ilweth came just short of spanking Mirathil for her egregious dishonor towards her ailing Lady; recalling, however, their resolution to refrain from combating their daughter's moral flaw in that way, they merely forbid her play for the next week and sent her to bed.

The next few weeks were some of the most dismal that Minas Tirith had ever known. A brooding cloud of worry hung over the entire city; and people strolling along the white streets would often pause to look in each other's faces, silently united by a common rueful anxiety. Most of the people held that the Lady Finduilas would grow to better health as time bore on-after all, were not the healers of the White Tower the finest and most readily skilled in the land? Yes, surely, any day now, word would come from the Steward's halls to the streets that their beloved Lady was on her way to recovery; but never did any such word come.

Like gradual drips in a bucket, the days slowly bore on, piling one on top of the other, changing first into weeks and then, into months; and now, it began to be whispered in rumors that the Lady Finduilas was not growing well at all, but rather quite the contrary-she was waning worse and worse each day, languishing-dying. And while the people outside her window would lament in mournful tones the ill health of their Lady and speculate as to whether or not she might truly die-and while her mother and father would gaze one to the other in a silent, growing worry-Mirathil would turn her little head away from the poor, anxious crowd and her poor, anxious parents and release a soft, sad little sigh, curiously carrying both the sound of youth and wisdom.

And finally, one cold moonless night, the sound of a herald was heard running throughout the silent, empty streets, wailing at every door and window, waking the sleeping masses with his mournful message-the Lady Finduilas, the beloved Lady of Gondor, was dead.

**V**

Do things in this world happen for a reason? Some, generally optimistic, would earnestly insist that they do; others would sigh with condescension upon this collective group and somberly pronounce that, regrettably, they do not. The Lord Denethor, more closely affiliated with the latter division of people in this world, would have said that what happened on a certain autumn's day in his halls happened for the reason that his eldest son Boromir, in roughly galavanting about as was his wont to do, somehow succeeded in thoroughly and utterly destroying the fine black tunic which was to have been worn for his mother's funeral. If the high Steward of Gondor was accurate in his pragmatic judgment, that all the events of that day were mere chance and whims of reality, or whether there was subtly something more to it all than that, may be left to be judged by the listener at the end of this strange and mysterious tale.

It was on a cool, clear afternoon in mid-autumn that Eldoran, together with his young daughter Mirathil, was walking homeward bound from the seventh level of the city after delivering the last of his day's crafts to a particularly fussy customer. Eldoran's trade was that of a tailor; and today it had been the special case that Mirathil, insatiably curious about everything, had been permitted to accompany him on his errands of delivery. At the moment, Eldoran was in rather a weary mood; his last patron had been relatively wealthy and thus, relatively difficult to please in the manner of his daughter's dress. And unfortunately, his currently aroused irritability was not being soothed by Mirathil's incessant bombardment of questions, which had been coming at him in high, excited tones all the day long without cease.

"Father, what was that rolled white object that the lady held?" she inquired curiously as they approached the great descending stairs of the current level.

"That was a scroll, Mirathil," her father absently replied.

"What were the strange pictures upon it?"

"Those were not pictures, Mirathil; they were letters."

"What are letters?" she asked with a blink of her purple eyes.

"They are markings by which high people may read," her father answered.

Mirathil's face shone. "May _I_ learn to read? Even if I have not yet found the stone?" she asked hopefully.

"No, Mirathil," Eldoran sighed wearily. "The reading of letters is above our station; and what _is_ this stone that you are always speaking of?"

Ignoring his question, Mirathil started at his statement concerning reading, acutely upset. "But I love to learn," she protested. "Why can I not be taught to read?"

"The common people are not schooled in learning, Mirathil; that is a practice of the rulers and the nobility-or the wealthy," he explained to her.

Mirathil moaned in disappointment. "Then, what am I to be schooled in?" she inquired.

"By your mother, you will be taught to cook and to weave and to look after a household, Mirathil. When you marry, you will have to know how to perform such duties for your husband and your children. Reading is not a skill you shall ever need," her father stated.

Mirathil gave a little pout. "Will Mabril's sons be taught to read?" she inquired.

"No," Eldoran replied with the subtle trace of a perceiving smile. "Son or daughter, the common folk do not study the art of letters, Mirathil."

Mirathil pondered for a moment; she was about to question why when suddenly, at the head of the stairs, they were met by a finely garbed man who abruptly halted her father. "Father, why-

"Are you the tailor Eldoran?" the richly dressed man inquired.

"I am," her father answered with a tone of surprise and immediate respect.

"I am a herald of the Steward," the man announced. "Lord Denethor wishes to see you at once."

Sharply startled, Eldoran was stricken dumb for a moment; then, tremulously he inquired, "Myself? Wherefore?"

"I would judge it pertains to a matter of your trade," the herald theorized. "Walk this way with me." With widened eyes, Eldoran at once began to follow; then he briefly hesitated. Motioning to Mirathil, he humbly asked, "Is it meet that my daughter accompany me? If such a matter offend, I shall carry her back home 'ere going before our Lord."

The herald absently waved his hand, resuming his path away from the ivory stairway. "It matters not," he replied. "Only see that she is silent."

"Yes, my Lord," the tailor respectfully answered, swiftly following after the herald. Looking downward to Mirathil, who was hurriedly scampering along beside him, her large purple eyes full of excitement, he whispered, "Ask me no questions and speak not a word, Mirathil, until we have left the Steward's halls. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Mirathil eagerly assured him, nodding her curly, golden head as she scurried along, a rather comical sight to observing passers-by.

After the herald they went, back around the city's seventh level until they came to a great ivory stair; and then, up and up they stepped. And coming above the last white step, Mirathil beheld a vision of magnificence and beauty such as she had never in her life seen before-there, before her enormous purple eyes, was the great palace of the Lord Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, and above it, the lofty White Tower-Minas Tirith, for which the city, her home, was named.

Quivering with awe, Mirathil followed in enraptured silence as her father led her up the great walkway that cut through the spacious green lawn up to the royal halls; but a short way from the door, she was suddenly wont to pause. Issuing up from a well-tended plot was an altogether dead and dismal tree. Staring at its grim, crooked state, Mirathil vaguely wondered what it meant and wherefore it was left there; but she had scarcely begun to contemplate this 'ere the very next second saw her hurriedly pulled from her rooted stance on the white walkway and firmly led up another great ivory stairway-the stairway into the Steward's halls.

Slowly gazing upward, Mirathil was immensely impressed by the size and height of the two iron doors which loomed at the top of the stairway; but nothing could have prepared her for the splendorous sight within. As the great doors were swung heavily open before them, her breath was instantly taken away, so that she could not have uttered even the first word of a question if she had tried. The enormous hall stretched back as it seemed to her young, peasant eyes forever; the spacious chamber rose in height to a degree that was positively unnerving; and at the end of it was a marble throne, seated atop a small flight of ivory steps.

Walking alongside her father, Mirathil recognized the soft rustle of her dress on the marble floor as nearly the only sound in the immense hall. Looking to her right and to her left, she beheld in awe many tall, skillfully crafted statues somberly lining the several high windows of the chamber atop great marble pillars. With amazement, she gazed down at the intricately crafted designs upon the floor; and when she looked back up, it was with admiration.

But upon reaching the throne at the end of the impressive hall, Mirathil was surprised to note that no one sat upon it. Instead, a tall, stern-looking man was regally seated at a humbler chair at the bottom of the ivory staircase. Beside him stood a young boy, about ten years of age, with brownish gold hair and grey-blue eyes. Immediately, young though she was, Mirathil realized these two richly dressed individuals to be the Lord Denethor and one of his sons; and together with her father, she nervously paid a silent motion of homage, awkwardly dipping in a little curtsy. "My Lord Denethor," her father spoke reverently.

His elegant grey robes flowing about him, the Steward slowly, majestically arose from his seat; but his attention was not fixed on the tailor which he had called for but rather on his young daughter. For a moment, the sternness of his countenance was transplanted by a startled expression of wonder, as was likewise that of his son. At last, in a tone somberly authoritative, the steward spoke: "This is your daughter?"

"Yes, my Lord," Eldoran answered quickly. "I ask your pardon for her presence, but I was met by your herald on the street and commanded to bring her along."

Denethor blinked. Never in all his life had he beheld a child so exquisite. Her great beauty was apparent even at this early age and seemed as though it ought rather to belong to a princess than to this lowly peasant, in her plain grey little dress which so sorely complimented the sweet loveliness of her face. But shocking-yes _shocking_-to the very core of oneself were her eerily enormous pair of deep violet eyes, speckled with tiny highlights of faintly twinkling silver. They were literally breathtaking and yet at the same time, nearly chilling. "Her eyes are most-uncommon," he finally stated in a rather stunned tone.

Eldoran blinked. "Yes, my Lord," he affirmed. Inwardly, he felt a small swelling of pride at the fact that his daughter's eyes had turned the gaze of even the Lord Denethor himself and his eldest son. What a tale that would make for among his neighbors in the merry hours tonight!

For her part, however, Mirathil was rather uncomfortable under the prolonged scrutiny of the regal man. Trying not to fidget, she looked back at him a bit puzzled-he did not seem to hold much of the air of a man who had just lost his wife, and his stoic demeanor unnerved her a little. But finally, the noble steward regained his even countenance and, thankfully, turned his piercing gaze back to her father.

"I have need for the skills of a tailor," he explained. "It was spoken that you were of the highest mastery of your trade, and thus have I called you here." Pausing to allow Eldoran a respectful bow, he then continued. "My son has need for a black tunic-a fine, well-woven one, which must be finished by tomorrow evening."

Inwardly, Eldoran started-by tomorrow evening? He would be working incessantly all through tonight and tomorrow to accomplish such an order on time. But to weave an article for the House of the Steward was the honor of a lifetime-and undoubtedly, the tunic was for the Lady's funeral. Reverently, he nodded in servitude to his sovereign. "As you say, my Lord. I will require your son's measurements," he added.

"Yes, of course," Denethor assented. With a swift motion, he bid the young boy at his side go forward.

Mirathil blinked. For some reason or other, the boy approached them with a significantly uneasy expression on his face. As he stepped toward her father, he seemed reluctant to allow his right arm to stray too far away from his side. While her father carefully began to take his measurements, Mirathil curiously tilted her head at his right hip; did something ail him there? Then, suddenly, she noticed a small, brown lump of something barely peeking out from underneath the bottom of his shirt; instantly, she started, her whole face lighting with curiosity. Was he hiding something? Before her two-year-old mind had time to give it the wisdom of a second thought, Mirathil inquisitively reached over and firmly pulled the tiny brown lump down from under the boy's shirt; and then, in the very next moment, her high-pitched scream could be heard ringing off of every cornered wall in the spacious, aforetime somber, chamber.

Rapidly dropping the thing from her hand, Mirathil fearfully jumped away. Hurriedly scampering across the marble floor was a baby squirrel, its bushy brown tail feverishly twitching behind it. With a loud cry of distress, the ten-year-old boy immediately dashed after it, running from the throne room in a panic. His face flashing with anger, his father, the Lord Denethor, shouted for him at once to return; but the boy apparently being out of earshot, the furious man turned and stormed after him. Eldoran stood startled and altogether perplexed for a moment; but then, casting his glance downward toward his hand and realizing that the raucous boy had run wildly off with his best marking pin embedded in his shirt, he immediately started up and, forgetting his daughter, dashed after the pair of them. And Mirathil, blinking in bewilderment, now stood all alone in the enormous, empty chamber.

For a few moments, she merely stood rooted to the floor in shock. Then, suddenly hearing the cries of her three previous companions echoing from beyond the throne room in some adjoining chamber, Mirathil at once started and began to scurry off in the direction of the noise-but then suddenly, she paused. All at once, in realizing that she was alone, an incredible burst of wonder and curiosity possessed her. Here was she all alone in the great palace of the Lord Denethor? She? And…free she was left to explore any part of it that she chose! With a face all alight, Mirathil swiftly turned from her present course; and casting a fleeting, mischievous smile toward the path the others had taken, she raced off in the opposite direction.

Exiting the spacious throne room through one of several corridors, Mirathil happily skipped down the narrow ivory hall. Rounding a corner, she then came to a flight of stairs, which she decided it pleased her to go up. Then, came another corridor, then another corner, then more stairs, then another corridor, then another…and soon, Mirathil was so merrily lost that she could not have returned at her father's call even if it had been sounding. With a glowing smile, she turned round another corner and nearly danced down the ivory hall; but passing one half-closed door, she suddenly paused her merry expedition. From within the partially sealed-off room, came a sound. Her little ears pricked as slowly, she recognized it-it was the sound of crying.

With a curious blink, Mirathil gently pushed the door open just enough for her to see inside. Peeking into the room, she saw a young boy sitting curled up against the only wall with a window, facing to the left with his knees pulled in to his chest. Almost instantly, Mirathil's sweet little heart was struck with compassion. Silently slipping through the crack of the doorway, she stealthily crept up to the crying boy, unnoticed-until, with a slightly trembling hand, she softly touched his shoulder.

Amidst his sobs, the boy suddenly threw up his head and gasped. Quickly, he spun around to see who was there with him, expecting to behold his brother or a servant. At the sight of a tiny little girl, he blinked in surprise-and then, for some odd reason, he slowly blinked again, all of a sudden ceasing his crying. The strange little girl blinked back at him, her face looking as though she had somehow been unexpectedly stunned. With a sniff, the boy confusedly let his eyes flicker over her; and all at once the thought strangely came into his mind of how pretty she was-her delicate, creamy face, her pale golden curls-but most of all, her enormous starry violet eyes, that stared at him with an inscrutable expression of mixed surprise and confusion. Rather suddenly he felt a little strange looking back at her-as if, for some reason, he was not quite himself. With a swallow, he in turn eyed her in confusion.

With slowly widening eyes, Mirathil blinked at the boy in timid uncertainty. His blondish brown hair hung in a rather stringy manner around his pale, wet little face, as if he had been crying for a long time. Looking out at her from his sad, damp face was a pair of keen blue eyes, behind of which, she could somehow sense that thoughts were racing, as ever they were in her mind. Gazing down at the boy, Mirathil suddenly felt a strange little twist inside her, that seemed to thrill and hurt at the same time. Wondering at what was somehow different about this boy from all the other raucous ones she had ever encountered, Mirathil gently broke their silence with the only question she could think of: "Why do you cry?"

The boy blinked at her tearfully. "My mother is dead," he answered sadly.

Mirathil's eyes widened a little more; for some reason, his sorrow seemed to her a matter of greater grief and deeper prompting of compassion than it had been before. Kneeling down, she gently drew her arms around the boy in a tender hug. "I am sorry," she sincerely whispered.

With a blink, the boy slowly lifted his arms to hug her back; strangely, it seemed as though he now felt a little better. Eventually, he pulled back from the small girl to inquisitively look her in the face. Her fluffy hair shone and shimmered like the sunlight; and in her face was both a vibrant joy and a teasing but gentle warmth. Sitting in the pool of light on the floor, the rays of which streamed brightly through the window above them, she looked as if, in body and spirit, she could almost be a part of it. "Are you a sunbeam?" he tremulously asked.

Mirathil blinked. "No," she answered. "Are you?"

The boy shook his head. He gazed at her again; she was _so_ pretty. "Are you an elf-child?" he inquired next.

No," the little girl repeated.

Slowly, the young boy tilted his head at her. "Who are you?" he asked her.

"My name is Mirathil," she brightly answered. "I am the daughter of Eldoran. Who are you?"

The boy blinked, a trifle surprised by her question. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor," he told her. "Did you not know?"

"No," Mirathil replied, shaking her curly head. In a corner of her mind, young though it was, it had been strictly ingrained into her that she was now supposed and expected to become deferential toward this introduced individual-but strangely, she did not feel even slightly inclined to do so. He seemed different to her from the others-from the stern, majestic man in flowing robes and his proud, energetic son. This boy was…quiet, passive. With a smile, she asked him another question. "Faramir, what room is this?"

Again, Faramir blinked in surprise at the girl, this time at the fact that she had neglected to address him as "Prince Faramir" or "Lord Faramir"; but oddly enough, this seeming irreverence pleased him. Tilting his head at her, he answered her question. "This is my bedchamber; how came you here?"

With a sudden flash of amusement in her violet eyes, Mirathil proceeded to go into a long relation of her arrival to his room, which began at her embarking with her father upon his daily series of errands and carried through to the time when they had finally come to the palace. At this point, in enraptured memory, Mirathil added in an entirely unnecessary strew of detailed descriptions for Faramir of his own home and what it looked like, not pausing to realize that he had seen it every day of his entire life.

Yet Faramir did not at any point in her long-winded monologue ever grow the slightest bit impatient; with a steady, placid countenance, he listened all the way through, even attentively. When the girl concluded with what she considered to be the most exciting part, the unexpected incident of the squirrel, Faramir suddenly saw the humor in the situation and laughed out loud.

With a start, Mirathil fell silent. Her two-year-old mind had thought the scene that had transpired in the throne room to be a matter of the highest gravity and lively though it was, to demand a somber kind of respect. The fact that her listener was reacting in exactly the opposite way she had expected during the climax of her story startled and then, actually disappointed her. Pursing her lips, she despondently crossed her arms and gave a little pout.

Noticing her glum expression, Faramir confusedly smiled and explained to her. "It is a good joke, Mirathil; and for once, my father's anger shall not be turned toward me."

About to remark in annoyance that her tale was _not_ a joke, Mirathil was suddenly silenced by the boy's last remark. With a slow blink, the little girl gazed into his face, not quite understanding. "What mean you?" she asked him.

All at once, Faramir's face seemed to fall and become grey again. "I anger my father," he replied to her sadly.

Recalling her parents' repeated exasperation at her "lies", Mirathil supposed that she comprehended the meaning of his statement. "I do the same," she regretfully assented.

With a look of surprise, Faramir started. "You do not please your father, either?" he inquired.

Mirathil blinked in confusion. "I please him," she answered. "And then later, I do not please him."

Faramir sighed, in a subtle way slightly disappointed. Sadly, he looked away from her. "I do not ever please my father," he said.

Mirathil was all at once startled; somehow, that did not seem as though it were right. "Why?" she asked him.

"Because I am not as a son should be," he ashamedly answered. "I am better at my lessons than at sport. Father says my face is too pale for a boy my age. I should be outside, learning from Boromir-he is my elder brother," he briefly interrupted himself to explain to her. "But I can not help it; I do not want to run and play all the day long as he does. I _like_ to stay in the library!" Here, he spoke with an earnest, pleading expression in his eyes, as though he had cried that statement several times without being heeded. Lowering his blue eyes, he swallowed as another tear slipped down his cheek. "Mother understood," he softly murmured.

Confused by his speech and yet pitying his sorrow, Mirathil gently reached over and took his hand. "Do not cry," she spoke warmly. "The Lady loved you; she would not want you to cry. My mother is not glad when I cry. She says 'Oh, my pretty little Mirathil, it is all right.' " Trying to think of something that would comfort him, she bit her lip in contemplation before cheerfully speaking again. "When I cry, I think of pretty things, and I start to feel glad," she offered hopefully.

Blinking, Faramir looked back up at her. Her starry violet eyes warmly met his gaze, softly shimmering with sympathy. With a swallow, he tremulously whispered. "Do you cry purple tears?"

Mirathil blinked in confusion. Tilting her head, she answered, "No. My tears are the same as yours."

"Oh," Faramir sniffed, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

Mirathil looked at him curiously. "Are you as old as Finiel?" she asked.

Faramir looked back at her. "Who is Finiel?" he questioned.

"She was my friend," Mirathil sadly replied. "Are you as old as she?"

"How old is Finiel?" Faramir asked her.

"Five years," Mirathil answered.

"Yes then; I am nearly six years of age," Faramir stated. "How old are you, Mirathil?"

"I am two," she answered with an air of dignified importance, despite the fact that that was not even half of his age.

"Then you are nigh to four years younger than I," deduced Faramir. Suddenly, he started. "Your father must be searching for you; I shall take you back to the throne room." So saying, the young boy rose up from the floor.

It was only then that Mirathil noticed that he had had something clutched in his other hand the entire time. Rising to her feet, she curiously tilted her head. "What are you holding?" she asked him.

Sadly lowering his eyes, Faramir slowly uncurled his fingers to reveal a bright sparkle of silver. Resting in his palm was a small glistening ornament, crafted to a shape somewhere between that of a circle and an oval. In its shining silver surface was wrought the likeness of a cluster of water lilies while its border was simply but elegantly decorated with a feathery intertwinement of threadlike lines of silver and ivory. In each corner of the border, at the top, the bottom, the middle-left, and the middle-right, faintly glowed a tiny pearl, barely noticeable; and in the very center of the glittering ornament, within the silver cluster of water lilies, was set a large, iridescent opal, crafted into the shape of a seashell-the spreading fan of a clam.

With widened eyes, Mirathil surveyed the fair ornament in wondrous admiration. "It is _beautiful_," she breathed out. "What is it?"

" 'Tis an adornment," spoke Faramir sadly. "My mother wore it in her hair; she loved it better than any other because it reminded her of the sea. She often spoke to me and Boromir of how she lived by the sea 'ere she wed our father," he softly recalled, gazing down at the crafted pearly seashell.

Mirathil tilted her head. "Why do you have it?" she asked.

"I took it from her chamber," Faramir confessed a trifle guiltily. "Father does not know; he is searching for it. But I feel better when I look at it; I do not want it put in her hair when she is dead and shut away in a tomb forever," he whispered, drawing it to him. "I will hide it and keep it." With a sniff, he stoked his finger over the glistening hair pin; then, all at once, he looked up at Mirathil, his blue eyes wide with worry. "Do not tell!" he begged her. "Mirathil, please, you must tell no one."

Mirathil blinked. "Why?" she asked.

"Because Father will grow angry and take it from me," he told her. "Please, promise that you will not tell!"

Her large violet eyes softening in sympathy, Mirathil somberly clasped her little hands together. "I will not tell," she earnestly vowed.

His face softening in relief, Faramir carefully tucked the silver ornament under his shirt into a pocket. Then, he turned back to Mirathil. "Come, I will take you," he offered.

Happily, Mirathil skipped up to his side. As Faramir turned to walk out the door, she affectionately took his hand. With a start, Faramir cast his glance down at Mirathil; again, he felt that same strange rushing feeling that he had when he had first looked up and seen her standing there. What did it mean? Standing still, he stared down at her.

Mirathil patiently waited for Faramir to begin walking; but when after a considerable length of time he did not, she at last looked back up in confusion to meet his gaze. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

Faramir slowly blinked. "I do not know," he answered. Looking over the little girl beside him, he again studied her fluffy golden curls, her sweet creamy face, and her large violet eyes. "Mirathil, you are very fair," he said innocently, not being able to think of anything else to say.

Mirathil tilted her head. "I thought that only _grown_ maidens could be called fair," she pointed out.

Faramir blinked. "Then…you are very pretty," he spoke again, after a moment's reflection.

Mirathil smiled sweetly. "Thank you," she said. Again, her stomach felt like it twisted in a strange way inside her. Desiring to somehow return the compliment, she spoke admiringly. "Your mother was pretty too, I saw her once." Then suddenly, Mirathil blinked. "What will you do with her hair pin, Faramir? Where will you hide it so that it is safe?" she asked.

"I will hide it in the library," he answered. "After it has stayed hidden long enough, Father will think it is lost and cease to look for it."

Mirathil sighed. "I am looking for something," she spoke despondently. "But I never lost it; I have never found it at all."

Faramir blinked at her in confusion. "What do you look for, Mirathil?" he asked.

"A stone," replied the young girl evenly. "I tell everyone about it, that I need to find it; but no one listens."

"Why do you need to find a stone?" Faramir inquired.

"I do not know," Mirathil answered a trifle sulkily, wishing that she did know.

Faramir looked at Mirathil in confusion; but strangely enough, it did not enter his mind in any way to point out the irrationality of her statements. "I could find a stone for you, Mirathil," he offered.

The little girl gently shook her head. "It can not be any stone," she explained. "It is a special stone that I have been looking for-grey with a little mark on it. It will mean something special; but I can not find it!" she cried in exasperation.

Utterly bewildered though he was, Faramir slowly tilted his head, pondering long and hard. A special _stone_? What could she mean? A special stone which meant something? A special _stone_…

Suddenly, a light came into Faramir's eyes. A special stone-he had heard of it from his father and even read about it in the library, moreover. At the top of the Tower there was kept a highly prized stone which none but his father were permitted to see. Perhaps that stone was the one which Mirathil referred to. At his heart, he immediately felt a little tugging of guilt; not even he and his brother were allowed into that room. There was no question that access was absolutely denied to Mirathil; but in looking into her purple eyes, Faramir could see that she longed to find this stone of hers very badly. And the thought of the joy that stood to overtake her if the one in the Tower turned out to be the same of her searching all at once overrode his heart's misgivings.

"I think I may know what stone it is of which you speak, Mirathil," he stated slowly.

Instantly, Mirathil's despondent little frame snapped alive with light. "Where is it?" she inquired of him fervently.

"In the Tower," Faramir told her. "I can take you to see it-if you would like to."

Delighted, Mirathil clapped her little hands together and eagerly nodded her head, her numerous golden curls bobbing up and down. "Yes, yes!" she joyfully cried. "Take me there! Thank you, Faramir!"

Feeling an immediate rush of happiness at her expressed joy, Faramir swiftly took Mirathil's hand and began to lead her out of his room and down the spacious hall, in the opposite direction of which he had originally intended to set out with the aim of arriving at the throne room. Walking down the ivory hallway and short flight of steps at its end, Faramir rounded a corner and paused at an especially tall door. "This is my father's chamber," Faramir explained to the little girl beside him. "I must get the key to unlock the door to the Tower. Wait here a moment." Leaving her outside, he pushed open the great door, momentarily revealing a rich and enormous room, and then entered inside. A few moments later, he re-emerged with a rusty iron key in his hand. Smiling at Mirathil, he again took her hand and proceeded onward up the hall. Walking through an ivory labyrinth of halls, passageways, and stairs, the two children finally came to the foot of a great circular staircase. "This stair leads to the Tower," Faramir told Mirathil. "It is a long way up; let us go." Together, they climbed for what at the end of their ascent, seemed to Mirathil's two-year-old legs like a hundred years; but her face immediately lost its weariness for a brightness as she beheld in front of her an old wooden door. With a breath of excitement, she followed Faramir a few paces forward and anxiously waited while he inserted the key into the rusty iron lock, turning it with a small amount of difficulty. "Father will post no guards here," Faramir idly spoke to his companion as he fumbled with the lock. "He says that he fears the stone will call them."

With a blink of confusion, Mirathil looked up the height of the old, dusty door. "Call them?" she puzzled.

As the old lock finally clicked undone, Faramir slowly pushed the heavy wooden door open, cringing somewhat at the awful grating sound it made against the stone floor. " 'Twas seldom used 'ere my father took up the rod of the Steward," he explained through gritted teeth.

At last, the door was open. With a breath of excitement, Mirathil again thanked Faramir and hastened into the room behind it. Beaming, Faramir followed her, well pleased that she had surely found the object of her seeking; however, when he came into the room, Mirathil was standing still, looking about her dejectedly. "What is wrong?" he asked her.

Mirathil turned to him disappointedly. "It is not here," she answered.

"Not here?" It must be!" insisted Faramir. Painstakingly, he turned his head around the whole perimeter of the room, with not a little curiosity on his part as it was his first time to see this room as well as Mirathil's. The small, circular chamber was completely bare-except for a tall dark pillar in the center of the floor, atop of which stood a…

"This is all that is here," Mirathil spoke despondently, stepping aside and motioning to a strange, glasslike dark-red sphere which rested upon the top of the lone pillar.

Faramir started. "That is it!" he exclaimed. "That is my father's stone-the special one, Mirathil!" he eagerly told her.

Mirathil sighed. "That is not the stone I saw," she stated in a melancholy tone. "The stone I seek is grey with a marking on it."

Faramir blinked. "Are you sure of it?" he asked.

Mirathil nodded. "Yes-I have seen it many times," she answered.

Faramir looked at her; then, he let out a weary breath. "I am sorry," he said.

Mirathil smiled. "It is all right," she told him. "I will find it someday."

Faramir hoped so; he felt badly that there was something she wanted that she was not getting. Then, he suddenly started. "Mirathil," he remembered, "We must go back; if we are found in this place, we shall be punished."

Mirathil blinked. "Why?" she asked.

"Never mind; only do not tell anyone that ever I took you here," he warned. "Come with me." Compliantly, Mirathil began to walk back toward the door; but then, about half-way, she suddenly paused. "What are you doing?" Faramir asked her.

An odd expression forming on her little face, Mirathil slowly turned her head back toward the stone-topped pillar. Blinking, she stood stock-still for a moment; then, all at once, she spun completely back around and headed for the pillar in the center of the room.

"Mirathil!" Faramir cried, "this is not a time for play!"

"I am not playing," Mirathil returned, in a voice that strangely, did not sound quite her own. Coming to the pillar, she looked upward inquisitively at the glassy stone that rested atop it. It was too high…

"Mirathil!" Faramir cried again, a bit impatiently; but he released a startled gasp when he suddenly saw the little girl stretch out her hands and violently shake the tall pillar, causing the red glass ball to fall to the floor with a loud crash. Horrified, Faramir instinctively closed his eyes, sure that the precious stone was broken and his doom at the hands of his father appointed; but upon cautiously opening one of them, he was stunned to behold it not only perfectly in tact, but faintly beginning to light with a mysterious glow. The next thing he beheld was Mirathil slowly kneeling beside it and curiously laying her fingers upon its surface, a strange light kindled within her purple eyes. "Mirathil…" he slowly tremulated, unsure of what was happening or what he ought to do.

Mirathil blinked, her large purple eyes possessed by an almost morbid fascination, as she watched a tiny cloud slowly form within the crimson sphere's center and gradually progress outward. All of a sudden, the obscure mist seemed to touch upon the ball's inner surface; and at that moment, just as suddenly, did Mirathil's face lose its curious expression. Inside her eyes could at first be seen an emotion of uneasiness; but then, it all at once progressed to cold apprehension, then to acute anxiety, then to fear-and finally, as the inside of the glowing stone seemed at last to explode with a burst of light, a pure chilling terror. A shrill shriek ripping from her young throat, Mirathil watched in horror as a golden, cat-slitted eye suddenly filled the inside of the stone, which now glowed a fierce, hellish red.

Reacting in shocked alarm, Faramir sprang to her side and desperately began an endeavor to rip her tiny hands off of the blinding stone; but to his astonished horror, they would not even scoot an inch across it, unalterably pinned down as if by some unseen hand. Terrified, Faramir began to scream in unison with her while still striving to free her by forcefully yanking on her arms.

Inside Mirathil's mind, a frightful thing was taking place: The room around her seemed to grow dark and silent; no longer could she register anything that transpired there. All reality fell away from her and was replaced with something horrible-an oppressive, omnipresent darkness that suffocated her very soul. And all at once, she was horribly aware that she was not alone in this place-suddenly before her was a dark, foreboding figure, the sheer emanating terror of which was utterly unspeakable. Not even could she muster a scream, but only stare against her will into the towering silhouette's one searing eye and tremble with an overcoming fear. And then, all at once, Mirathil felt the shadowed figure begin to speak to her, call to her within her mind-and quivering with terror, she shrank under the overwhelming power of that horrible voice:

_Who are you?_

Flooded with fear and perceiving a deathly will of the purest evil she had ever known, Mirathil did not answer.

Again, the question was thundered inside her-

_WHO ARE YOU?!_

Releasing a sharp cry of agony, the little girl was compelled to answer, fearing that if she did not, her very soul would shatter into nothingness.

_Mirathil._

_What?_

_Mirathil._

She shivered as he-somehow she knew it was a he-groped for her in the dark; then, all at once, he suddenly seemed to see her. For a moment, he was silent-and Mirathil could actually sense his sincere surprise. Then, he questioned her again.

_Who is thy father?_

Shivering, Mirathil again had no choice but to answer.

_Eldoran._

_What doth he do in this world?_

_Sew-and weave._

Again, he was perplexed. Mirathil knew he was wondering how it was that she had come here-but she was not supposed to have come here! Suddenly, however, she felt his deathly grip on her lessen as he absently contemplated in his mind, so that she became able to speak. Her eyes flooding with tears, from the bottom of her heart she cried out with her mind.

_Please-please do not hurt me! Please, let me go!_

He started; then, with a cruel laugh, he somehow released an overcoming wave of power that excruciatingly seared into the very fiber of her spirit.

Mirathil screamed in agony; and as she did so, she knew that her suffering was amusing to him, even pleasurable. Repeatedly, she begged him to stop, unheeded; then, at last, he gave a hideous chuckle and released her. Within her mind, she felt as though she nearly fell apart from the relief while her thoughts fumbled like frayed, blurry threads unable to form a singular solid string.

With a laugh, he drew away as though, satisfied with her inflicted torment, he was prepared to release her. As he left her alone in the mind-numbing dark, he called one last time to her:

_Tell your Lord Denethor that I will come to him soon._

Her mind hazily reeling from shock, Mirathil felt darkness slowly seeping around her as she numbly registered his final, chilling command. And then, it seemed as though, mercifully, in only one brief moment she would be free; but something happened then in that one brief moment, which unfortunately-or perhaps most fortunately, some might say-changed the life of Mirathil of Gondor forever. All of a sudden, Mirathil's dimming mind was sharply pierced by a spark of light which tore away all the veils of shadow cast over her thoughts like a sword effortlessly slicing through spiderwebs; and instantly, her numb deliria was transmuted into a vibrantly alert consciousness of the highest stability. Inside her mind, all the darkness and its will melted away before a sudden, insuppressible image; before her mind's eye was a strange little man who stood so small in stature as to rather seem a child. Comfortably seated beneath an oak tree, he pored with interest over a small book in his hand, his curly brown hair lightly blowing in the breeze. As a low merry sound of singing suddenly began to sound across the glen of his resting, he abruptly raised and turned his head, his large blue eyes lighting with anticipation. Then, in a flash, the image faded and left her again in the dark, nearly about to fall through the shadow's mist back into reality.

But all of a sudden, the awful aura of evil about her instantly ceased to fade and was abruptly renewed. With an overwhelming wave of darkness, the terrifying figure returned to her. He also, through the medium of the stone, had beheld the strange image race across his mind; and now, it was just as though Mirathil had been slipping through a careless hand which, about to let her fall away, suddenly swiftly gripped her again.

Mirathil's heart knotted in terror as she was roughly pulled back into his chilling presence. He had been going to release her; what now did he want?

Possessed by bewilderment, he studied her; what had happened? Like the flimsiest frailties, his power over her had all at once been utterly cast aside for the spell of that one brief moment. How could that have been done? What strangeness was this child, what was-_different_ inside her…

Suddenly, he so violently started that Mirathil herself felt her mind jolted with the shattering revelation of some great discovery. With a frighteningly urgent will, he grabbed hold of her mind and began to thoroughly rip it apart, dissecting its every small section and scrutinizing its every element. Writhing in agony, Mirathil screamed incessantly within the fragmented shards he had made of her mind; and then suddenly, she stilled as his excruciating endeavors ceased-and to her trembling confusion, she could all at once sense his silent awe and amazement. For only a moment did she fearfully wonder at this; for in the very next one, he let out a roaring laugh so hideous and horrible that shuddering in terror, she instantly lost all capacity to think.

_Great Eru Iluvatar, wilt thou be so foolish as to give forth one of thy messages to thy servant at **this** ill time, in my presence, within my comprehension? Surely thou art the most senseless of lords,_ he espoused with a spirit whose cruel arrogance swelled the whole limit of the shadow that surrounded them both. Turning his attention back to Mirathil, he smugly taunted her. _Thou art a special child._

In every fiber of her being, Mirathil trembled.

_And thou wilt aid me to find something. Something-most precious._

All of a sudden, of their own accord, the scattered fragments of Mirathil's mind strangely ceased their quiver and swiftly came back together; and all at once, in that instant, she gained the power to speak:

_You lie._

Startled, he halted his triumphant laughter.

_What?_ he inquired.

_You speak a lie,_ Mirathil repeated, moved by a sudden boldness. _Eru__ Iluvatar **is** great; He is not foolish nor a senseless lord, but the Lord of All._

Stunned, he regarded her with silence; then, at once he grew incensed. _SILENCE, CHILD!_ he thundered wrathfully. **_I_**_ am the Lord of All!_

Again, Mirathil found power for thought; and again, she rebuked him. _No, thou art not; thou speakest lies._

Smoldering with fury, he violently struck her again with his power; but something was different inside Mirathil this time. When he had offended her knowledge of truth, verily the highest truth, she had suddenly felt some strange burst of light explode deep in her innermost heart. From within her it came and yet from beyond her-it swelled inside her until it had flooded her whole being, clamorously drowning out the dark will that oppressed her. And then, within its glow, it took a shape-hatred.

The utter hatred that she had ever borne since birth for lies and deceptions all at once welled up within her to a seemingly infinitely multiplied degree. Bitter revision for her tormentor's false words sweepingly possessed her thought, revolting her to the very core of her soul. Amidst such raging fury, there could all at once be no room for fear-and in that moment, the hatred-or rather the love for truth which it translated into-became power.

Suddenly, Mirathil began to struggle against her adversary's hold on her. Violently fighting, she shouted at the shadowy figure inside her mind. _No!!! You are a liar-I HATE lies-I will not listen to them!_

Coldly shocked, he strongly gripped her with his thoughts, endeavoring to forcibly subdue her resistance. _Cease this! _he harshly ordered. _Submit thyself to me-and name me unto thyself as the Lord of All!_

However, further revolted by the command that _she_ should speak a lie, and indeed, the most blasphemous one possible, her resistance grew even stronger. Violently struggling, Mirathil suddenly began, thread by thread, to break away from the darkness about her. Dimly, the sound of a high-pitched wailing began to be heard in her ears-and the sight of a chamber fade back into her view. Her righteous incensement at his abominable commandment like a white hot light, she potently seared the dark being restraining her in his iron clutch. _NOOO!!!!!!!!! _She lividly screamed, forcing him with a gasp of shock to release her from his chilling grip-and then, all at once, her suffocating prison of darkness melted from around her as vaguely, she felt herself sharply return to awareness-but then, in the immense weariness which suddenly flooded that instant, she fell into darkness.

**VI**

The next thing that Mirathil knew was a dim, hazy light; and then suddenly, the light expanded and clarified into Faramir's frightened, tearful face. In a sheer panic, the young lad was violently shaking her, repeatedly crying out her name. "Mirathil! Mirathil! Are you alive?! Mirathil, _speak to me!_" he sobbed.

With a slightly disoriented blink, consciousness suddenly came back into Mirathil's violet eyes. Then, with a groan, she began to react to Faramir's forceful assault on her arms. "Oh!" she cried in pain as he shook her like a piece of fabric. "Faramir, stop!"

His eyes flooding with a mixture of joy and relief, Faramir pulled her up off her back and threw his arms around her. "Oh, Mirathil, I thought you had _died!_" he cried brokenly. Pulling her close, he tremulously whispered. "Do not ever die; my mother has already died and left me. Promise me that you will not ever die."

Mirathil blinked hazily. "I promise I will not die," she brokenly complied. "And I will not leave you, Faramir-but…" Suddenly as she spoke, a fear and a darkness crept over her face. Within her mind, her terrifying ordeal raced across her memory; and her purple eyes flooding with tears, she all at once broke down into a quivering torrent of sobs.

Alarmed, Faramir pulled back to face her. "Mirathil, what is wrong?" he worriedly demanded.

Throwing herself back into his arms, the little girl continued to cry. "Fa-ra-mir," she sobbed brokenly. "He-hurt-me; and he says-he is going-to make-me-find some-thing for him-

"Who?! Who hurt you?!" Faramir demanded.

"I-do not-know," cried Mirathil fearfully.

Faramir felt a cold rage welling up inside him; how dare anyone hurt Mirathil? They would be punished! But suddenly, his anger was changed to surprise. Of her own account, Mirathil was slowly calming herself. Gradually, he felt her grow still and quiet, as if she were all at once brooding on something. Confusedly, Faramir pulled back again to look into her face. "Mirathil?" he asked. "What is it?"

Looking back at him, Mirathil slowly answered. "But I stopped him; I got away-I am safe now," she gradually realized.

Faramir blinked. "Who did you get away from?" he asked.

Mirathil's face revealed a frustrated confusion. "I do not know," she answered. "He did not say his name, but-

All at once, her speech was cut short as her purple eyes fell with dread upon the now dim glass ball lying very close beside them. Leaping up from the floor, her face white with terror, Mirathil cried out to Faramir. "We must go! We must go now! It is not safe, hurry!"

Instantly, Faramir sprang to his feet. Together with Mirathil, he started to rush toward the door; but then suddenly, he turned back. "The stone!" he cried. "Father will know-I must put it back!"

Her eyes flooding with horror, Mirathil fiercely grabbed onto his arm. "NO!!!" she shouted. "Do not touch it, Faramir!"

But consumed with the dread of what his father would do to him upon finding the stone out of its place, or worse, what he would _think_ of him, Faramir briskly pulled away from the little girl's clinging grip and dashed back over to where the glass ball lay. "I will be quick!" he promised. As a terrified Mirathil watched him, Faramir swiftly scooped the heavy stone up off the floor and replaced it on the dark, centre pillar. "It is well!" he declared, then turning and hastily scampering out the door, Mirathil at his side.

When they were outside the room, Faramir quickly slammed the door shut and locked it with the rusty key. Then, turning to Mirathil, he spoke to her with tears in his soft blue eyes. "It is _my_ fault. None are suffered to enter here, save my father. I wrongly brought you hence."

With a startled blink, Mirathil questioned him. "Why did you that?"

"Because you wanted the stone," he sadly answered. "I thought it was here. But I should not have taken my father's key and led you here. I am sorry."

Mirathil gazed at him; then, she leaned forward and hugged him. "It is all right, Faramir," she said; however, then she faltered. "But I am still afraid," she whispered, tears again starting to form in her violet eyes.

Faramir swallowed. He did not want Mirathil to be afraid. Gently, he stroked her silky golden hair; then, slowly, he ceased his motion and looked down at the beautiful shimmering locks. For a moment, he silently stared upon them; then, softly, he spoke to her. "Mirathil…I want you to feel better. I will give you something." Gently pulling away, he reached into the folds of his pocket and produced the shining silver hair pin. Looking into her eyes, he held it out to the little girl, its opal clam softly reflecting the light with a shimmering iridescence.

Mirathil started. "But that is your mother's hair ornament!" she reminded him.

Faramir nodded. "I know-I wish that you should have it now," he told her. "It will be beautiful in your golden hair," he added with a smile.

With a breath of disbelief, Mirathil slowly accepted the fair gift, carefully lifting it out of his palm. Her violet eyes shining with joy, she admired the beautiful ornament. Then, gazing back up at Faramir, she rapturously whispered, "Thank you, Faramir; I love it."

His blue eyes filling with light, Faramir smiled back at her. Nothing had ever thrilled him so much before as seeing this little girl happy. With a gentle warning, he closed her fingers over the ornament. "Hide it in the folds of your dress," he told her, "so that no one will see it." When she had done so, a wide smile on her little face, Faramir gently took her hand and began to lead her back down the winding stone stairs. "Tell no one that you came here," he reminded. Casting a glance at her, he was placated by her earnest nod.

When they had reached the bottom of the circular stair and Faramir had successfully replaced his father's key to his chamber, the two children were slowly meandering hand-in-hand back to the throne room. Turning his head to look at her, Faramir asked Mirathil a question. "Mirathil, will you come again?"

Mirathil looked back at him. "I do not know if I can," she answered doubtfully.

"If I send for you, you may come," Faramir assured her.

Mirathil lit up with joy. "When will you send for me?" she inquired eagerly.

"Would you come tomorrow?" he asked.

Mirathil happily nodded. "Yes," she assented.

Faramir smiled. "Good," he said.

Mirathil blinked. "What will we do when I come, Faramir?" she questioned.

For a moment, Faramir pondered. "I do not know," he finally confessed. "Whatever you wish to do; but I have my lessons at a certain time. We can not play then," he spoke dismally.

Mirathil curiously tilted her head. "What are your lessons?" she asked him.

"I study the arts of letters and numbers-and also history," Faramir replied. "Most of all, do I practice the skill of reading."

Mirathil sighed. "I wish that I could learn to read," she spoke wistfully.

Pausing their walk, Faramir looked at her. "I can teach you to read, Mirathil," he offered. " 'Tis really a simple matter-well, _I_ think so, Boromir does not-

"Could you truly?!" cried Mirathil in excitement. "Oh, Faramir, thank you! Thank you, I should love it! You are wonderful!" Delighted, she rose up on her tip-toes and sweetly gave his cheek a kiss.

Initially startled, Faramir froze; right after, however, he was beaming. "You are welcome; you are wonderful also, Mirathil," he told her. As they approached the archway into the throne room, Faramir warmly gave her one last hug and reciprocal kiss on her own cheek. Then, together, they went in.

Interestingly enough, at that precise moment, a maidservant and Eldoran also entered the spacious chamber from the opposite direction. As it had turned out, the ten year old son of the steward had apparently captured a baby squirrel just prior to the tailor's arrival; and his father, in coming to fetch him, had left no time for the boy to hide his captive other than in his own shirt, as his father had suddenly entered through his door. After Boromir's following unseemly flight from the throne room had been apprehended (whatever became of the squirrel may never be known), Eldoran had dutifully completed his measurements before either he or Denethor, amid all the commotion, had noticed his daughter's absence. Startled, Eldoran had gone together with a servant Denethor had promptly appointed as a guide to seek for her. After calling her name several times without an answer, Eldoran had begun to be more than slightly embarrassed, and it would not have been inaccurate to have said that Denethor had become more than slightly annoyed by the ringing echo of the man's incessant shouting down all of his halls-but still smarting from the shameful display of his own, much older child, whose ruckus had precipitated the girl's disappearance, the noble steward had not been in much of a position to comment on the tailor's daughter's mischief. Thus, Eldoran had conducted a relatively thorough search of the palace, which being fruitless, had ultimately concluded in a return to the point of its origin.

Upon seeing Mirathil emerge from the opposite end of the chamber, Eldoran's immediate reaction was to scold her for her thoughtless mischief; however, beholding who accompanied her, the man's eyes grew wide, and he humbly bowed instead. His surprise could scarce have been greater when he witnessed the young son of the steward happily walk his daughter hand-in-hand up to where he stood. With a smile, the boy released her hand and warmly told her goodbye. Even more astonishing was Mirathil's reciprocal farewell which did not even afford the respect of recognizing any title before the boy's name. However, with a courteous nod to himself, the young prince again smiled at his daughter and wished her a nice walk home. Respectfully taking that remark as a formal dismissal, Eldoran bowed again and, appalled by the observation that Mirathil did not, swiftly took her by the hand and proceeded to exit the royal household down the long, wide entranceway.

All the way down, Mirathil kept looking back behind her and smiling; and Faramir, each and every time, returned her expression. Finally, however, when she and her father had passed out the door, Faramir blinked in slight despondency; then, in a flash, he turned and dashed out of the spacious chamber.

As Eldoran was preparing to lecture Mirathil on their way down the walkway outside, he was suddenly interrupted by a loud cry from behind them. "Goodbye, Mirathil!" Turning around, they both beheld the tiny face of Faramir smiling at them from a small window high up in the white stone of the palace's front and enthusiastically waving his hand. In blank astonishment, Eldoran bowed again on the stone walkway while Mirathil happily waved back and shouted for all the lawn to hear, "Goodbye, Faramir!"

Thus publicly embarrassed by his daughter's irreverent addressment of her sovereign's son, Eldoran proceeded to then take Mirathil home as swiftly as was possible. Afterwards, she received a stern lecture, coupled with a lengthy interrogation as to what she had been doing for so long a time period while he had been calling her, in conjunction with bothering the steward's son no less. Mirathil told him of all her account with Faramir other than the frightening incident of the stone, which she neglected at Faramir's order; but mostly, Eldoran found it difficult to get much of any manner of information out of his two-year-old daughter--some dreamlike haze seemed to have taken over her whole attitude and capacity of reason, and try as one might, the girl refused to be brought out of it. So, in the end, Mirathil was simply sent to bed and told she would be accordingly dealt with in the morning.

Once alone, however, Mirathil happily took out her beautiful silver hair pin from its hiding place in her dress. As she turned it over in her small hand, she admired its beauty and thought with enrapture over the one who had given it to her. He was so quiet and gentle…Giving the sparkling ornament a kiss, Mirathil carefully hid it beneath the wrinkled folds of her blanket; and then, lying down to sleep, the happy little girl sweetly dreamed of the wonderful friend that she had made that day-and far away, beneath a high white tower, a little boy did the same.

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**Preview**

_"So what the hell is up in the sky?"_

_"My God-please tell me it didn't…"_

_"We must not go!"_

_"I wish to see Mirathil again."_

_"Bring me that child."_

_"Shit-of all frickin places…"_

_"Mama! Father! NO!!!"_

_"HOLY SHIT!!! Man, **c'mon,** FIRE!"_

_"Who are you, little girl?"_

**Stay Tuned!!!**

**----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

O.K., so here's the part where I talk to my reviewers.

**Crow: **Thanks for the review and the compliments on my writing; I'm glad you like the idea. By the way, I removed and re-uploaded this story for the third and final time-finally, found the right genre to put it under. It won't move anymore!

**Almost Funny: ???????????** Are you still there anywhere? Oh well, I hope you come back. I'm glad you like the idea. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

**Lil'layah** Thank you for the wonderful review! You read my little fanfiction over a real novel? That's flattering! I'm glad my writing style was up to standard. On Arda America-true, it is pretty weird. For awhile I thought about creating a fictional modern country, but ultimately I decided against that for two reasons: (1) This story is inspired from the whole huge genre of people from modern America ("people" being teenage girls, I always seem to find) traveling back in time to Middle Earth to usually become part of the Fellowship. What I thought would be a switch-up and rather humorous idea was to bring Middle Earth to us instead-the same "us" that exists in all of the LOTR time travel fanfiction. (2) Ultimately, I judged that people would have an easier time adjusting to the concept of an AU America rather than a total fantasy country. What always inevitably comes up in these kinds of tales is that there will have to be some scenes of the Middle Earth people being intrigued by the gadgets or culture of the "modern" characters introduced into their medieval world. That thing will inevitably have to come up even more often in my story as these new characters now possess a literal land to focus into the story. It seemed that for convenient understanding it would be better to just leave the modern country as America, what it was in all the other stories. If I had invented a completely new country, people might would have had difficulty in relating to it; they would have felt it perhaps as mysterious and foreign as Middle Earth, which was not my desire or intention. So, I let it stay the same America that nothing will have to be tremendously explained about in order to impart a sense of familiarity. This way, I can get right into the conceptual story of Middle Earth meets modern country without slowing down by way of continual paragraphs in every chapter which further expound upon the fantasy modern country that everyone's just as curious about. America well lent itself to being the modern country anyway though-Arda's Iluvatar, our nation's founding on God; the Lost's seeking shelter in a new land, America's heritage of immigration, etc. Alexander? Actually, I was referring to Sargon of Akkadia, history's first known empire builder. Did the text say "Alexander"? If it did, that's a mistake, and I'll fix it. Joan of Arc is oddball-but I actually have a reason for choosing her in a later chapter. Hmmm…I went back over the prologue, and you're right-it is too repetitive, or rather too detailed. Americans didn't need that much information about themselves, duh to myself. I was just trying to write its history as completely as Middle Earth's to make it feel like a part of the same world-but that's enough of that. Yes, we do sound quite arrogant, don't we? I'm going to develop that idea extensively. One of the most major themes of this story is what Middle Earth would think of us and what we would think of Middle Earth. Everyone who goes back in time in all of the LOTR stories is always like "Wow! I can't believe I'm here! Maybe I do want to eventually go home, but this place is SO COOL! (And Legolas is so hot.)" Well, I submit-what if wasn't that way? What if most people were like "Middle Earth? Dark Ages! No plumbing, no women's rights, no say so in government-that place is SO PRIMITIVE." Anyway, thanks again for the review-I'll try to have the next chapter up in 1-2 weeks.

Go with God,

**(Miss) E.D.**


	3. Two Treasures

**Author's Notes: **Oh my GOSH, I am SO SORRY!!!!! I went waaaay over my scheduled update time. I'll talk to you in the ending Author's Notes!

Miss E.D.

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**I**

With a bored yawn, Alex Bolton typed the final round of access codes into the beeping computer. Then, as the screen began a long series of blinks and sporadic matrix programs, he leaned far back in his mobile chair, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The sudden sliding of two long-sleeved arms around him startled him back from the horizon of unconsciousness.

"How's your work coming?" a silken-smooth feminine voice asked in a tone which indicated that work was the last thing on her mind.

With a smile, Alex took up her right hand, planting a kiss on its smooth palm. "With money and no interest," he evenly answered her. "And what about you, Amber-is your work occupying you at the moment?"

"Obviously not," she dryly replied, "though one could make the inquiry as to what work in particular you are referring to," she smiled sensually, slowly running her fingers down his chest to his belt.

"Come on, Amber," Alex grinned, breaking from her satin sleeve embrace as he straightened up and spun the chair around. "You know work hour regulations. What do you want to do here, get us fired?"

Amber tilted her head, her rose red lips spreading in a teasing smile. "What do _you_ want to do here, get me desperate?"

With a grin, Alex spun his chair back around. "Never. Tell you what," he said, as the auburn-tinted blonde leaned back down to nuzzle his neck. "Tonight I'll take you out to Michelle's, you know that really ritzy new place just opened up on a Hundred and First? And later on, we'll stop by my apartment. Sound good?"

"Subliminal," the woman sultrily replied. "As long as you wear this same cologne." Then, planting a final kiss, Amber Madison lifted up her head to study the computer screen, draping her arm over the top of the chair. "So what the hell is up in the sky?" she casually inquired.

"Damn if it's anything," Alex dryly returned. "Sometimes I don't know why they even bother to monitor the place. Twenty years, what, this station has been in operation? And not one singular sighted occurrence other than an occasional hurricane. That makes for one boring watch day."

"Hmm," agreed Amber. "But I guess that's what we want, isn't it? An uneventful, predictable Middle Earth?"

"That's certainly what the Feds want," replied Alex absently, typing in another set of codes. "Personally, I think this country, this station not even considered, could use some stirring up."

"What do you mean?" asked Amber, turning to him with a blink.

"I mean that America in general is acquiring an attitude, Amber," said Alex, continuing to type. "For all our blessings, we are becoming an arrogant land. It seems I can't go anywhere now without some smartass getting in my face about something. Like yesterday-these kids at the mall were trying to return some items they'd bought at a music store. The store had a return policy which they were made aware of on the day they purchased the items. But nonetheless, these high school kids came in to return what they'd bought after the deadline for refund. And when the store clerk explained to them that they couldn't return their purchases at that point, they began to pitch a fit. They started insulting the clerk and the store, and demanding to see the store manager. They were holding up the whole line, so I finally said something to them about it-and every one of those little dipshits got in my face with a punkass attitude, not even ever having it once dawn on them that they were the ones in the wrong-everything was all about them. Sometimes I feel like that's how this whole people and country is becoming.

From my point of view, any kind of large crisis in Middle Earth that would stir up media coverage or start dominating people's daily thought lives might make a good impression-maybe if Americans saw someone less fortunate than themselves, it would dawn on them to adopt a more humble and grateful attitude for all the blessings they have in this country. In my opinion, there's plenty of pricks and smartasses in this city alone who need a good glass of cold water thrown in their face."

"Oh, Alex, come on," Amber sighed impatiently. "It was just a bunch of high school kids. We were all immature dickheads at that age. God, don't let yourself get pissed off about that to the point that you have to start preaching."

"Forget it," said Alex. "I figure you're right, it's just-ah, forget it," he brushed off, finishing up his typing.

Amber smiled down at him. "So what kind of life-shattering Middle Earth crisis would you prescribe for our country's salvation, Lord Alex of Wisdom?" she asked.

"What? Oh, Amber, get off it!" Alex replied, playfully slapping her away.

"A great crisis?" she teased. "A terrifying crisis? Look thou yonder, my lord Alex-I see a great change dawning over the fair land of Middle Earth. What can it be? Oh no-is it possible? Yea, it is! The One take my soul but the Midlings have discovered pre-marital sex-but they know nothing of birth control! Ai no, their numbers shall now multiply with speed unchecked until at last their whole land is overrun, and they must seek to journey hither! Oh, Great Lord Alex, America turns to you-what shall we do?"

Erupting into laughter, Alex had to pause his work, while a hysterical Amber sank down on her knees to the level of his chair arm. Finally, Alex regained his composure, reaching over for his coffee cup. "I don't know whether the Midlings really hold to the romantic ideal of pre-marital chastity or not, Amber," he smiled, taking a sip of the steaming black coffee. "We generally didn't in our medieval times, even though it was supposed to be a moral law."

"Pretty difficult law to enforce," Amber grinned, laying her head in her palm. Gazing at the satellite-photographed land on the computer screen, she thoughtfully mused. "God, it must be rough to live in Middle Earth-the smell alone is probably incapacitating."

"The smell?" inquired Alex.

Amber nodded. "Yeah. A documentary of the Middle Ages came on my tv a couple nights ago. You know that people back then only bathed about once a year?"

"Well, maybe their Middle Ages are different from ours," stated Alex.

"Why should they be?" remarked Amber carelessly. "So anyway, what time is it?"

"About noon," Alex replied, checking his watch. "I'm just about ready for lunch-if it was any other institution that gave me my paycheck, I'd be slipping off early."

"But you don't pull that kind of shit with the government," sighed Amber. "No punching out 'till our replacements get here."

"No kidding either, Amber," said Alex seriously. "Just in case something actually did happen-would you like to go down in history as the one who ruined our country by not looking at the screen when the attack came?"

"The attack?" said Amber sarcastically. "The magical attack of doom that we must be ever on guard against-from frightening, predictable little Middle Earth up there?" she spoke, tapping the computer screen.

"Better safe than sorry," stated Alex. "Even if my occasional frustration says otherwise."

"Mood swing," noted Amber. "You said before you didn't even know why they bothered monitoring it."

"Like I said, occasional frustration," returned Alex. "I really do know it's a good idea."

Amber shrugged; then, tilting her head at the screen with its space-view map out of Middle Earth, she smiled. "Seriously though, Alex, even if Americans have gotten a little proud perhaps-you don't honestly think we really need to learn anything from _Midlings_, do you?"

"No, I wouldn't go that far," agreed Alex. "They are still technologically and socially behind us-I just wonder if maybe seeing some of that would make Americans more appreciative of what they have and less inclined to whine or bitch about things."

Amber pondered. "I guess, though, there's one thing I can think of that I might like to rip off that place," she commented. "Magic-if there even is any. I'm starting to think that's all just a government cook-up too, for whatever reason they'd have."

"I don't know if there's really any magic out there or not," assented Alex, gazing at the land on the screen. "But in either event, the scare of it's still getting us a job."

"A damn boring job," spoke Amber, rubbing her eyes.

"You should try being one of the women _out there_," stated Alex, taking another sip of coffee.

Amber smiled. "Maybe I would have magic," she teasingly suggested.

Alex grinned. "I don't think so, Amber-but I dare say you and the rest of America's females wouldn't need it anyway, to get your way about things. You're all independently bossy enough without it."

"Hey, I'm not some sheltered Midling maiden waiting for Prince Charming to come and take care of me always," remarked Amber. "So I and American women are independent and aggressive about pursuing the things we want-we often have to look out for ourselves, you know." Seeing Alex smiling, she playfully yanked his hair. "Anyway, anytime you'd like to take a step to change all of that for me, _Alex_-

"No, no!" cried Alex. "I take it back! You're wonderful, dear, wonderful all by yourself in your awe-inspiring independence-

"Oh, come on, Alex!" laughed Amber. "Rescue me! Save me from my dreary independence, my heart-wrenching denial of maidenhood!" Amid Alex's mock looks of horror, she cracked up under her own humor. "Take my hand henceforth, my Lord-and lead me into the light! The light is to be found in the Dark Ages!"

Suddenly, their laughter was pierced by a shrill beep. Jumping up, Amber composed herself. "Time to go to work," she announced, sitting back down at her computer, from whence the alarm had issued.

Alex followed her. "So what's up in your sky?" he asked, leaning over the back of her chair with a smile.

Amber grinned, tilting her head as he began to nuzzle her neck. "Odyssey's coming home," she stated.

"Really?" Alex asked with sudden interest. "I thought she wasn't due for another couple of days."

"Nope-she's here now," said Amber, typing some access codes onto her keyboard. "Coming in at forty-five degrees…right there."

His face filled with wonder, Alex peered at the screen. "God-so she is. I can't believe it."

"She's back," Amber smiled, her gaze shifting back and forth between the keyboard and the screen.

"Eighty-two months in space," breathed Alex. "Over a billion dollars…this is a happy day for Nasa."

"The happiest since mankind walked on the moon," asserted Amber. "God, over its whole voyage, can you think how many photographs that thing took?"

"Wish we had access to them," sighed Alex. "You sure you don't get to even steal a glance?"

"No, I'm not even a main operative," spoke Amber regretfully. "I only supply a few commands prior to re-entry. The real overseers are down there," she said motioning to the large glass window which looked down over a bustling, computer-filled room.

"Still beats overseeing Middle Earth, I'd say," spoke Alex dryly. "At least Odyssey moves across the screen."

Amber laughed. "You know, Alex," she suggested, "seeing as you are the official main overseer of the Middle Earth, I think that maybe we should accordingly decorate this place."

Alex grinned. "Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah," reiterated Amber jokingly. "We could put up medieval paintings… suits of armor-"

"You could come to work in a Celtic dress…" broke in Alex with a tone of mock contemplation.

"If it would please you, my Lord," teased Amber.

"Oh God, it's getting to us, we're starting to talk like them!" cried Alex tragically. "Staring at Midlings all day, we've cracked!"

"You'll crack," smiled Amber. "Like you said, I'm on Odyssey-speaking of which…" she prepared to type again, her gaze re-focused to the computer screen, "…here she comes. O.K….aligning signal…giving access codes… " With full concentration, she watched the screen, typing a series of codes now and then. "Coming in…there," she concluded, taking her hands off the keyboard. "Now it's their problem."

With a smile, the auburn-tinted blonde swung her chair back around. "So about tonight: what time are you-

A sudden beep interrupted her sentence. With a blink, Amber Madison swiveled her chair back around. Gazing at the screen, her sight was met with an odd sequence of blinking numbers. "Huh?" she breathed. Moving her fingers back to the keyboard, she cleared the screen and re-typed the code sequence for probe re-entry. Then, locking her gaze to the screen, she waited. The desired program began to activate-but then just as suddenly, it aborted, the harsh beep sounding again with the resumed accompaniment of a flashing matrix engaged in a sporadic race across the screen. Amber's eyes widened, the light from the monitor eerily playing off her face in the semi-lit room. Her fingers frozen on the keyboard, her voice lowered to a whisper. "What the hell?"

Blinking in worry, Alex leaned over the chair. "What's wrong?" he inquired.

"I-don't know," Amber started to reply.

Suddenly, a pair of discarded headphones beside the computer began to loudly beep in signal. Quickly, Amber snatched them up and over her ears. "Yes," she spoke evenly. "Yes, I know. Repeating sequence." For one final time, Amber rapidly cleared the computer screen and typed in the probe's initial re-entry code. This time, however, the computer refused to even accept the code. Persisting its harsh beeping, it continued to display the random matrices of flashing numbers across the screen. Her face paling, Amber spoke tensely into her mouthphone. "The onboard probe computer is rejecting the code. Request sequence for automatic override." In a few moments, she was typing again-but before she could even complete entry of the new code, the program froze, and a piercing warning alarm began to sound. Across the screen, a large red message suddenly initiated its periodic flash: MALFUNCTION.

"Oh my God…" breathed Alex.

Sitting stock-still, Amber's hands became rigid in anxiety. "Sir, are you seeing this?" she inquired.

Looking out through the glass pane, Alex could see that the large computer room below had become a frantic maelstrom. Technicians feverishly typed at their computers while officials and overseers ran up and down the various aisles flinging papers and words one at the other. "Amber…" he started.

Amber was desperately typing at her keyboard. "I can't do anything with it," she called into the mouthphone, struggling to maintain an even tone. Across the screen, the warning word began to flash more and more frequently, the racing numbers beginning to violently blink back and forth with sporadic incoherency. More and more insistently, the alarm increased its frequency and volume.

"Amber!" spoke Alex urgently. "Come on, you've got to do something! The error originated in your program, you've got to do something!"

"I can't!" she cried frantically. "It's frozen, I can't get it to respond to anything!" Biting her lip, she glued her eyes to the screen while her fingers moved across the keyboard with feverish panic. "Goddamn piece of shit!" she shouted, slamming her fingers down on the unresponsive keys.

"Amber!" warned Alex, "the probe's moving too far out of assigned orbit-you're 'gonna lose it!"

"I know, dammit!" she shouted, endeavoring to type again. But to no avail were either her or all of her lower-level associates' efforts-with continued increasing speed, the probe maintained its gradual shift toward its set orbit's established boundary. "My God!" yelled Amber. "Sir, there's nothing I can do!"

"Madison, whatever the hell you have to do, at this point I don't care if it damages the program, just stop it!" came a loud voice over her earphones.

One last time, the nervous woman attempted a successful code communication with the probe computer-but as before, her effort was completely ineffectual. Her eyes saucers, she shouted in exasperation. "Shit, the thing's an icebox-I _can't_ stop it!"

Leaning down to the screen, Alex gaped in horror. "Holy shit-a billion dollars, and the thing is 'gonna crash," he croaked.

"Are there any more access codes?!" shouted Amber frantically into her mouthphone. "Second-level, basic matrices-anything?!"

Crossing to the glass pane, Alex looked out over the computer room. Everyone had ceased to type, had ceased to bustle to and fro, and was simply standing and sitting stock-still…watching. Watching the large main screen at the front of the room which showed the space probe _Odyssey I_ drifting closer and closer to its orbit horizon. With a swallow, the brown headed man turned back to where Amber was still punching codes on her keyboard like a maniac. "Amber, it's too late," he called.

Forcefully shaking her head, the woman stubbornly continued to bang on the keys. "If I can just get a single response-

"It will still be too late," emphasized Alex, laying his hands over hers to stop their feverish motion. "There's not enough time left for the probe to correct its path now, even with a registered command prompt. It's over," he somberly stated.

With a pale expression, Amber turned her face to gaze out of the glass pane in the wall, her eyes catching on the malfunctioning probe as it slowly slipped out of its prescribed orbit. Dismally shutting her eyes, she painfully waited for the inevitable. Everything about the room around and the room beneath them was silent-until a long, low beep finally signified the probe's fatal crash landing upon the earth. Opening her eyes, Amber spoke in a low murmur. "Is it a wreck?"

Alex blinked, gazing out the glass panel. Suddenly, he started. "Doesn't look like it!" he cried. "Check it out!"

Raising her eyebrows, Amber looked out the glass window where in the room beneath, the many technicians and officials had broken into a grateful, if not triumphant, applause. "What the hell…" Turning away, she snatched up the discarded headphones. "Sir, what happened?!" she anxiously demanded. Her eyes slowly grew wide as silently she listened. "Yes, Sir," she asserted. Turning to Alex, she let out a breath of relief. "It's a lucky save," she said. "The probe's a crater, but the film's O.K. Its encapsulating shell sheltered it from the impact."

"Thank God," released Alex gratefully. "A billion dollars-we'd have seen that one in our next paycheck."

"They want us down there," stated Amber. "They need all data as to what could have possibly caused the malfunction."

"Goodbye lunch break," sighed Alex, following her out the door.

A few minutes later, the two programmers were standing by their team executive as he hastily concluded a phone conversation. "No-no, we're working on that now, Sir," he spoke. "I'll call as soon as we know something." Hanging up the receiver, he turned to his two charges. "All right, Bolton, Madison, any report?"

"No, Sir," answered Alex with a shake of his head. "My station was off the _Odyssey I_ program altogether for once. No error got transmitted from there."

"What about you, Madison?" the exasperated man inquired. "The error originated at your station. What the hell happened up there?"

"I don't know, Sir," responded Amber a little nervously. "The probe's onboard computer wouldn't accept the transmitted access code. The program froze-I was unable to render control of the probe to the team operatives."

"The program froze-shit, that's great," sighed the wearied man, rubbing his hands over his eyes. "What in the hell-

"Sir!" cried an eager operative rigidly seated at his station. "Receiving generated transmission from the probe camera!"

Immediately, all three people rushed over to a specified station. "Get a lock on it!" ordered the chief executive urgently. "I want that thing traced!"

With rapid compliance, the operative feverishly began to type away. Almost instantly afterward, he eagerly punched a few random buttons to the side of the computer and shot his gaze upward to the large screen at the front of the room. "Sir! The location, it's tracked it!"

As everyone in the room threw their gazes to the massive computer wall, tensely holding their breaths, a satellite-photographed map slowly came up on the large screen. With a gasp, Amber threw her hand over her mouth.

Alex Bolton's eyes widened as his lips parted in disbelief. "No…" he murmured.

His face paling, the lead executive gripped his pen in a vice-hold. Staring at the screen, with all he had in him, he silently prayed for the non-appearance of a fatal, flashing little red pinpoint. "_Oh my God_-please tell me it didn't…"

**II**

Twirling her butter knife in her hand, Clarissa Bennett thoughtfully considered the well calculated list of ingredients before her: two eggs, two-and-a-half cups of milk, two tsp. of baking soda, 3 tbsp. of butter, four cups of flour, one-and-a-half cups of sugar, one tsp. of vanilla flavoring, and one packet of white cake mix. With a long breath, the twenty-eight year old woman ran a hand through her frizzy blonde hair. She had put every effort into this cake; and if it turned out anything short of absolutely perfect, she was going to collapse in disappointment. As mentally brilliant as she was, the culinary arts had always proven a subject utterly and completely beyond her comprehension.; yet on this particular day, she had stubbornly forced herself to struggle on against her inherent inability from morning 'til noon to thus create an acceptably good-if not delectable-round, two-layer white cake with vanilla frosting of yellow and blue. For today was a special day. With a smile, Clarissa carefully frosted the last inch of the cake. Today was-

"_Bon Matin, moi cherie!"_

"AHHH!!!!" shrieked Clarissa, abruptly startled out of her intense spell of concentration by the sudden enwrapping of two arms around her. "Robert! What are you doing here?!"

"It's my birthday, my dear," replied her husband carelessly. "I may go and do whither I will."

"I specifically sent you out of here at eight 'o clock this morning with inviolate instructions not to return until _1:00 P.M.,_" spoke Clarissa in acute aggravation as she turned to face her spouse. "And you know very well why: I needed this time to make the cake! _The cake whose appearance was supposed to be revealed on the dining room table when I had my camera ready for your reaction? _Honestly, Robert, do you have to spoil every surprise?"

"You know as well I do that if I had waited to see your cake when you were watching my reaction, you would have been more nervous than a person who's just seen "Jaws" on the beach," returned Robert practically. "I adopted the sacrificial charity of transmuting your anxiety into anger. And you see, it worked-you don't care _what_ I think of that cake now, do you?" he grinned teasingly. "And so now," he opted slightly ducking his head, "if I could just have a husband's standard blow with the rolling pin…"

"Oh, Robert, you jerk!" Clarissa laughed helplessly, giving his cheek a kiss. "I _ought_ to give you a blow with the rolling pin, and see if the lump didn't make you remember to keep away from my surprise next time! But really-what do you think of it? Is it too plain?"

"Not at all, Dear," smiled Robert, kissing the top of her head. "I think it suits me just perfectly. Especially now since today marks the beginning of my lifetime as an old man."

"Oh, Robert, really!" Clarissa spoke impatiently. "Thirty years old is not a tombstone-you speak as if your entire existence were crumbling into pieces!"

"And so it is, and so it is," sighed Robert dramatically. "Today, thirty; tomorrow fifty; and soon-

"And that rolling pin is starting to gain a mysterious appeal again…"

"And all those years still not enough time to spend with you, Darling," he finished quickly with a teasing smile.

Laughing out loud, Clarissa tilted her chin up for a sweet kiss. When they broke away, she warmly smiled, her baby blue eyes glittery pools of teasing affection behind her thin black glasses. "You, Sir, are completely incorrigible," she stated wryly.

"Thank you, Dear," replied Robert cheerfully. "And now, if you don't mind, I propose to cut this extravagantly exquisite cake-

"No, you don't!" cried Clarissa frantically. "Not until I've gotten a picture!" Like a bullet, she shot out of the kitchen, her frizzy hair flying behind her.

While she searched the house for her camera, from the kitchen Robert teased her. "I'm going to cut it, Clarissa," he loudly called.

"Robert, don't you dare!" came the incensed reply.

"I'm going to cut it on the count of three!"

"Robert!"

"One…"

"Wait a sec-

"Two…"

"Robert Bennett-"

"I'm cutting it…"

At that precise moment, Clarissa came tearing into the kitchen, her snapshot camera clasped in her hand. "Don't you even dare!" she yelled. Then, just as immediately, she smiled. "O.K.," she spoke enthusiastically, turning some dials on her camera, "just let me get a quick snapshot-

Just then, the phone on the kitchen wall suddenly began to ring. "I'll get it," said Robert, crossing to the counter. "You just get your picture, Dear," he smiled, rolling his eyes.

"Hey, I worked on this cake for three and a half hours!" protested Clarissa indignantly. "If you had put the amount of time and effort into some-

"I know, it's all right," laughed Robert. Absently, he picked up the phone as it shrilly rang again. "I'm just teasing you, Honey. Hello?" he spoke nonchalantly into the receiver. "Speaking." Amusedly watching his wife as she fidgeted with annoyance at the camera controls, Robert listened with a smile; then suddenly, the carefree grin strangely faded from his face. "What?" he asked.

"God, this thing is useless!" shouted Clarissa in aggravation. "Robert, where did you leave your cam-

His eyes growing tensely alarmed, Robert absently waved his hand and shushed her. "Mmm-hmm," he said, his tone deeply apprehensive. "Mmm-hmm."

With a blink, Clarissa halted her irritated inquiry, her demeanor immediately losing its warm nonchalance for a reserved air of concern. "Who is it?" she asked.

His face clouding over with concern, Robert didn't answer. "How long?" he anxiously inquired. "Are you sure?" As the obscure voice continued its monologue over the phone, Robert listened with a somber countenance and painstaking attentiveness. At last, he closed his eyes and wearily rubbed his fingers over their lids. Then, with a swallow, he dropped his hand from his face and spoke with a wholly resolute tone, his eyes fixed to some obscure point on the wall in front of him. "Yes, Sir-yes, Sir, we'll be there immediately, as soon as we can."

As soon as he hung up the phone, Clarissa anxiously put forth her central question concerning the call's message, already guessing at this point who the call was from. "What did the department want, Robert? What happened?"

Rubbing his hands over his eyes, Robert took a breath. "Odyssey's crashed," he stated somberly.

Her eyes widening, Clarissa gaped in horror. "Crashed?! How can that be?"

"Computer malfunction," said Robert evenly. "It seems the probe's onboard computer spontaneously rejected all of the access codes for orbital alignment procedure prior to re-entry. No one know exactly _what_ caused it, as of yet."

"Oh my God," moaned Clarissa, leaning over the counter to hang her head in her hands. "That probe was worth close to a billion dollars, Robert," she lamented miserably. "All of NASA's 'gonna pipe the tune for this one. _And the photographs,_ oh god-

"They're all right," interjected Robert quickly.

Clarissa snapped her head up. "What?"

"That's the one redeeming factor," stated Robert. "That encapsulating layer we put around the camera in the instance of a worst case scenario-it worked. The film capsule was completely shielded from the impact. It's safely in one piece transmitting the coordinate data of its location."

"Oh, thank God!" breathed Clarissa in relief, running her hand over her eyes. "As long as we salvaged _that_-where is it? Where'd it land?" she asked anxiously.

Drawing a breath, Robert folded his arms and looked her somberly in the face. "That's the one very serious problem," he stated heavily. "It just so happens, that amid all the vast area of oceans in the world, the _Odyssey I_ probe touched down on the continent of Middle Earth."

Her face frozen in disbelief, Clarissa's mouth dropped open. "You're not joking?" she finally faltered. "…It really landed on Middle Earth?"

"Just about smack dab in the middle of one of its shorelines," embellished Robert negatively.

Letting her eyes widen to the size of saucers, Clarissa absently crossed to the kitchen table and sank down in one of its high-backed wooden chairs. "_Oh my God,_" she breathed worriedly.

Walking toward the doorway, Robert snatched his car keys off the counter. "They want us to report down there immediately," he said.

"That's a given," sighed Clarissa, rising up from the table. "What do you think they're 'gonna do about this?"

"I don't know," spoke Robert sincerely. "This is sure something that nobody ever planned on. God, what are the chances?"

"No kidding," breathed Clarissa, forlornly shaking her head. "Of all calculated outcomes, this certainly isn't the one that I envisioned when we handed in those design formats to the department."

"It's a load of shit," moaned Robert. "And guess who they're 'gonna try to nail it on? None other, than you and I, Dear, the incompetent heads of the negligent constructional design team."

"Is that what they said?" Clarissa gasped anxiously, snapping her head over to his gaze.

"No," replied Robert. "But I'm full aware that's what's coming."

"Great," sighed Clarissa, starting with him for the door. "_Just_ great." Pausing at the door, however, she turned to him with one quick sarcastic smile. "Well," she spoke with a wry tone of humor—"Happy Birthday."

**III**

As she was escorted down the long dim hallway, the only sound that Clarissa Bennett could distinctly make out was the smart click of her high heel shoes on the slick tile floor. Glancing over at her husband, the frizzy blonde had her gaze met with an equally apprehensive one whose intensity increased the nearer they came to the door at the end of the hall. With a sigh, the young woman looked away and resolutely pushed her thin black glasses up the bridge of her nose. This wasn't going to be pleasant.

Reaching the end of the hall, one of their uniformed escorts silently opened the door and ushered them both inside. As the door was closed behind them, they were greeted by a man who immediately rose from his place at the head of a long table seating several government and NASA officials. "Dr. Bennett," he said respectfully, shaking Robert's hand. "And Dr. Bennett," he added, nodding at Clarissa with the hint of a smile. "Daniel Goldin," he introduced himself. "Gentlemen," he then spoke, turning to address the seated company. "This is Drs. Robert and Clarissa Bennett, the heads of the design crew." At some polite nods from his colleagues, he continued, glancing back at the Bennetts. "We all appreciate you coming on such short notice."

"Sir," nodded Robert a little nervously to the head of NASA. "No inconvenience at all."

"As you know," spoke Goldin, "The _Odyssey I_ probe crashed at eleven hundred forty-five hours in the southeastern region of Middle Earth." Crossing to a large screen on the wall, he pointed to a flashing red dot on a detailed satellite map. "Right around this area." Pausing, he turned to the two engineers. "Any thoughts on that?"

"Sir, I can't say off hand that I have any theory for what the cause of the crash was," spoke Robert. "But if I and my associate will be permitted to look at the details involved in the crash, the computer print-outs, electronic databases, we might have a chance of getting to the bottom of it."

"You're not going to have to worry about your data, Bennett," returned Goldin. "You'll be getting all you need to analyze the cause of the crash. That's the purpose of this meeting."

Clarissa blinked in confusion. "Sir?" she asked.

Turning back to the screen, the NASA chief raised a small remote control and changed the view from space perspective to an extreme zoom-in on the terrain. "This," he said, brushing his hand over a portion of the screen, "is the estimated zone of the crash site. About a mile-and-a-half diameter. Our Middle Earth Observation Department scanned the area and reported it to be a woodland, from all appearances uninhabited. Which brings me to the crux of this matter." Turning to the confused couple, he crossed his arms in a stance of utter seriousness. "The information you are about to receive is first-class confidential. In light of _Odyssey I'_s unprecedented scientific and government-backed financial enormity, a special committee held in Washington, with the President's consent, has authorized NASA to organize a recovery team to land at the crash site and retrieve the probe's film, known to be still intact, and whatever part or parts of the vessel might have escaped incineration."

If the head of NASA had informed Robert and Clarissa Bennett that a committee in Washington had just authorized NASA to organize a team to embark on a trek outside the Milky Way Galaxy, they could not have been more stunned. "_Sir?_" inquired Robert slowly. "The Department of NASA has been granted permission by the United States government to land in Middle Earth?"

"Affirmative," spoke a uniformed officer, rising from the table. "The government recognizes the importance of the _Odyssey I_ probe as significant enough to allow a deviation from federal policy. I'm Major Williams, and I'll be commanding the defense unit for the recovery team which NASA Administrator Goldin has informed you of."

"The defense unit?" queried Clarissa, her gaze turning to the somber black man in uniform.

"Major Williams will be heading a Green Baret company of five," expounded Goldin. "Their presence is to ensure the safety of the research team that NASA officials have selected to retrieve the Odyssey unit. All movement and projective decisions of the retrieval mission will be subject to the authority of the NASA specialists excepting if a matter of defense should arise, in which case an appropriate measure of authority will be delegated to the major and his unit."

Robert's eyes widened. "May we be allowed to inquire what individuals NASA has appointed to make up the recovery unit?" he inquired.

"Certainly," spoke Goldin evenly. "The main programmer for the _Odyssey I_ onboard computer Dr. Felton, chief radioactive specialist Dr. Geer, and the two of you."

"What?!" Clarissa abruptly started, her face going white in shock.

"Dr. Bennett, you and your husband are the heads of the design team for the _Odyssey I_ unit," stated the NASA administrator calmly. "Your presence on this endeavor is essentially required if any knowledge as to what factors could have ostensibly precipitated the probe's malfunction is to be gained from evidence directly involving the crash site. We don't want something like this happening ever again."

"Sir?" breathed Robert incredulously, still skeptical as to whether he had heard right, "…my wife and I-are being sent to Middle Earth?"

"That's right," affirmed Goldin evenly. "The two of you have been officially assigned to this mission by the administration board of NASA. You may, however, choose to decline."

"At what expense?" asked Clarissa wryly.

"The _Odyssey I _probe is your primary project. It was assigned to you based on your exemplary qualifications and performance in previous endeavors. Being selected to work on the Odyssey program was the highest honor an engineer of your department could receive, but with that honor and position came responsibilities," explained the NASA chief. "If you choose to waive official responsibility for the _Odyssey I _probe, it follows that your replacement on the recovery endeavor will assume all further administration over the program."

_You're fired,_ the couple translated sarcastically.

"Well," spoke Robert, adopting a conciliatory tone, "that is reasonable, I suppose. When do we leave?"

"You'll report to Department Head John Byrd at o'eight hundred hours tomorrow to be briefed on the mission," answered Goldin. "You will also receive preliminary training at that time to be continued at a fixed schedule up until October nineteenth: Go-Day."

The young couple nodded respectfully. It was either go or let someone else get their job. Turning to the satellite screen, they let their eyes drift over the wide land mass criss-crossed with numerous zoning lines and technically-devised travel routes. Drawing a breath, they swallowed. Somewhere on that vast, unexplored, medieval continent was a space-age American satellite-and it was up to them, of all people, to find it.

**IV**

"We must not go!" Mirathil shrilly insisted, clinging to her mother's dress as she was drug along the floor behind her.

"Mirathil, in the name of the Valar!" exclaimed Ilweth in exasperation. "If you do not let go of my gown this instant, I will fetch a switch!"

Blinking her violet eyes fearfully, Mirathil released the bottom folds of her mother's garment. "But, Mama-

"No words, Mirathil," Ilweth cut her off in irritation. "No harm or ill is going to befall us on this journey."

"But, Mama-

"Mirathil, sit down and keep silent for once," ordered Ilweth sternly. "Eldoran!" she called into the next room, "will you bring me my comb? I seem to have forgotten it."

Her face growing white with panic, Mirathil sat down on the floor and loudly burst into tears. "_Pl-ease!_" she choked brokenly. "_Please-we can not go…"_

"Oh, Mirathil," sighed Ilweth, kneeling down to stroke her daughter's hair. "For the Valar's sake, do not cry so! It is only a brief journey-we will go hither and return all in three weeks."

"We will not!" sobbed Mirathil uncontrollably. "Evil will happen!"

"It will _not_, Mirathil," stated Ilweth, taking her young daughter's hand. "I promise you, no evil will come upon any of us in this journey."

"Ilweth, your comb is not here!" Eldoran answered from the bed chamber. "Look again, you must have laid it in among your things!"

Sighing, Ilweth arose and crossed the room to rummage through a large brown leather sack. What a week this past one had been! The day after her husband had returned from the house of the Steward with his privileged assignment, Mirathil had come down with a horrible illness which had required constant attentive care. Between encouraging Eldoran in his work on the royal funeral shroud and endeavoring to prepare some meal which Mirathil could keep down, Ilweth had scarcely had a single moment to herself; and to crown the whole ordeal, she had been forced to stay home the day of the Lady Finduilas's funeral to care for her yet sick child. A necessity but a bitter disappointment nonetheless.

It was thus fairly natural that after the miserable affair of the past week, Ilweth would be all the more greatly looking forward to the pleasant diversion planned for the new one. Every year or two, Eldoran made a special trek with his wife to Ithilien, where she had been born and raised, to visit her parents. It had not been since Mirathil's infancy that the journey had been made, and doubtless, Ilweth's parents were eager to see not only their daughter but also their growing granddaughter.

Unfortunately, Mirathil did not seem equally delighted at the prospect of seeing them. _We can not go!_ she had irrationally and emphatically began to cry when they had first just informed her of the journey. _It is evil! Evil will happen!_ The entire morning had seen her consumed in a wild, tearful fit. Despite their attempts to calm her, all that the child could do was run after her parents as they endeavored to pack their belongings and supplies screaming in terror for them not to go. Shaking her head, Ilweth wondered if some shadow of sickness still lay over the girl, inciting her outlandish behavior.

"Please, Mama," she heard her young daughter whisper from behind her once more. "Please, do not go. If we do not go, everything will be all right," she strove to convince her.

Turning around, Ilweth smiled at Mirathil gently. "Mirathil," she soothed, "everything will be all right on the journey. We have made it many times, many times 'ere you were even born. We know how to arrive safely. Trust us-do not be afraid."

Silent tears continued to slip down Mirathil's cheeks. "I am afraid," she whimpered. "I saw it."

"Mirathil, you saw nothing," Ilweth sighed hopelessly, turning back around. Searching the bag, she suddenly smiled as her hand lighted on a familiar wooden object. "Here it is," she said with satisfaction. "Eldoran, I have found my comb!" she called. "Are you readied?"

"Yea," said her husband, emerging from the bed chamber with a few last articles in his arms. "Are you, Ilweth?"

"Yes," she replied, hoisting the leather sack off the table. Crossing the room to her husband, she held the bag open while he dropped his bundle inside. Then, she tightly pulled the drawstrings, turning her head in exasperation as Mirathil gave a loud, mournful cry. "Mirathil, that is enough. You are behaving in an ill manner. Cease your crying, and come outside."

Rising to her feet, Mirathil slowly crossed the room to where her parents stood. She had been desperate to make them understand, but they had refused to. What could she do? Never before had she felt more lost, more helpless. She wished Faramir were here, he would know what to do, what to say. Faramir-she wished she could see him again. But her parents would ruin everything! "Please," she begged desperately as she reached her parents. Looking up at them, she focused her tearful violet gaze directly into theirs. "Please…do not go. You will wish you had not gone. We will all wish you had not gone. Do not go."

Gazing down at their daughter, Eldoran and Ilweth were suddenly struck with a strange sort of feeling; their young daughter, peering up at them, almost seemed to be more than a child, her words more than a baby's prattle. It was nearly as though she were speaking…_beyond_ herself somehow. And for half a moment, it touched them…

But in the next moment, they were returned to the realm of practical reality. "Mirathil," sighed Eldoran, "Behind the gauze of those tears, your eyes never did appear so purple or so unsettling; but come now! Let us be off. And no more of this foolishness from your mouth." Taking her hand, he led her, together with his wife, toward the door.

Looking back, Mirathil blinked tearfully. She beheld the table she had always eaten at, the spot on the floor where she had always played, the hearth by the fireplace where her mother was wont to brush her curly hair, even the corner where she was always sent to sit when she had done ill. With a confused swallow, she shut her violet eyes. Something was coming-something was changing…changing forever with every step she took, she could feel it. What? What was it?

As she stepped outside the house, she turned her eyes to the ground while the sound of the door being shut penetrated her hearing. Assuming a tone which exceeded the dejectedness of even her appearance, Mirathil spoke. "I never went back. Faramir wanted me to."

Patting her head, Ilweth sighed. "Mirathil," she said gently, "Faramir is the son of the Steward. He may not remember you. But if he does, he may call for you when we return. Please, do not raise your hopes so though, my little one." Leaning down to kiss her cheek, Ilweth then picked her up and began to walk with her husband down the ivory street on a march to the city gates.

From over her mother's shoulder, Mirathil looked back at their little ivory house, set amid several others of identical appearance. Until her parents turned a corner and the familiar home vanished from view, she kept her violet eyes locked upon it with unwavering steadfastness. Then, she cast her gaze back down to the white cobble street, watching as it steadily drew backwards with the brisk pace of her parents' walking. She swallowed. Her mother did not know. Faramir would not forget her; he had given her the clip, the beautiful, sparkling clip that even now, she kept secretly tucked within the folds of her baggy pocket. But her mother did not know. No one knew.

Closing her eyes, Mirathil clutched the folds of her mother's dress more tightly. They did not understand, they would not listen. But perhaps, she could be wrong, perhaps no evil would come as she expected. Rubbing her eyes, Mirathil kissed her mother's cheek. She hoped she was wrong-no, she was wrong! With tearful resolve, the little girl hugged her mother in a death grip. "Go away," she whispered fiercely. "I do not believe you. Nothing will happen to my mama-nothing will happen to my mama or my father or me! There is no evil, and I will not say anything! Nothing will happen…"

**V**

Like long dark fingers, the mists and shadows rose and fell around the partially reconstructed architecture. Now and then, the gloomy clouds would part with a dry wind, revealing for just a moment a tall, foreboding tower, stretching its cruel top to the very sky it seemed. Around the enormous fortress-tower, hundreds of hideous creatures, Orcs and Trolls together, were hard at work laboring to repair and build up the grim structure-while within, an ominous storm was brewing.

With a burning intensity, Sauron brooded over his palantir. Only but one week ago, he had beheld it, the rarest and most deadly treasure which ages ago his master had told him of-a seer. Still, seven days later, he could scarcely believe his luck-that a seer, just born into the world, would somehow find their way to a palantir and by chance reveal themselves to his person. What a fortuitous occurrence!

And yet, Sauron had cause to doubt-if the child had been within the Lord Denethor's halls, was such indicative of the possibility that the Steward as well knew her for what she was and had drawn her into his protection? More importantly, it was still a blow to Sauron's mind how the child had managed to repel his influence; in complete rebellion, she had broken free of his power and escaped the realm of the palantir. What did that mean? Playing the scene over and over in his mind, Sauron recalled her words:

_You lie…_

_Eru Iluvatar **is** great…_

_He is the Lord of All!_

Drawing a breath, Sauron's mind was suddenly filled with understanding-

_I judge they will be noble people, with exceeding strength of these virtues: humility before the One, truthfulness of speech, and caring for the people of this world…_

_Thou speakest lies!_

"Truthfulness of speech…" murmured Sauron slowly.

_I HATE lies!_

"So that is how…" realized Sauron in amazement.

_I will not listen to them!_

_It will be a long battle between our will and theirs…_

_NO!!!_

"My will and yours…" murmured Sauron thoughtfully.

"My Lord?"

With a snap, Sauron whirled around. "Who enters my presence?" he thundered.

Breaking into a tremble, the darkly clad man involuntarily took a step backwards. "My Lord, it is thy messenger," he hastily explained. "I bring word that those whom you requested have arrived."

Relaxing his offended stance, Sauron recognized his servant. "Very good," he spoke smoothly. "Draw closer-I will show you something."

A bit hesitantly, the man approached his dark lord; as of yet, his master had no physical form and the great aura of darkness which served as his embodiment struck fear into even the hearts of those who were safe in his favor. But when the man saw that his master purposed to allow him a look into the palantir, he quickened his pace, eager, as a learned sorcerer, to experience its power. Waving his hand over the dim Seeing Stone, Sauron suddenly illuminated it into a searing red sphere, its interior swirling with a mass of formless cloud and shadow as it sought out its commanded target.

All at once, within the stone, there appeared a man of humble face and apparel. With a carefree gait, he made his way along an overgrown, woodland trail. By his side was a woman, also plainly garbed and modest in demeanor. Slung over his shoulder, the man carried a large brown leather sack. In her gentle arms, the woman carried a small little bundle, nestled close against her…

"Look upon the child," Sauron instructed his servant.

As if on cue, the young girl in the mother's arms lifted up her head and turned it around in an effort to see the road ahead. The man blinked, a trifle startled-two enormous violet eyes, set in a creamy little face met his view. With a yawn, the little girl brushed back a stray curl from her golden head and looked back up at her mother. "A fair child she be, Master," remarked the man sincerely. "Of what import is she?"

"She is for what my servants have been summoned," replied Sauron. "You will describe this child to their number. Tell them of the road she travels upon-a little used path through the southeastern portion of Ithilien. Their command from me is to intercept her in her journey and lay hold of her-they will slay her sires and any others who may be in her company. Then, they will bring her before me."

Although the man was not a little confused as to what purpose the capture of a young child could hold for the Dark Lord of Middle Earth, he reverently bowed without question at his master's wave of dismissal and exited the chamber with his orders. Walking through a labyrinth of obsidian halls and chambers, he finally came to two high iron doors. Pushing them open, he stepped into a half-lit chamber which held the company of four, exotically garbed men.

Upon his entry, the four men immediately bowed in respect, strands of their long dark hair falling out of their hoods. Crossing his arms, the man spoke in a tone grim and somber. "I am the Mouth of Sauron. Men of the East, Sauron has summoned you for the skill and success with which you have proven yourself in his service. Now, the Great Eye commands that you steal your way to Ithilien. Upon an old path of the Southeast, there travels a couple of Gondor-a man and woman and with them, a young child. This child bears hair of gold and eyes of amaranthine. When you find her, you are to take her and slay her sires. Slay as well any who may witness your deed or seek to hinder it. Then, return and bring her forth to me. Go."

At his wave of dismissal, the four men again bowed low, making a sign of allegiance on their chests with their half-gloved hands. "Yes, my Lord," their leader answered. Then, rising up, they turned to depart.

**VI**

Under the light of the moon, the waves crashed upon the shore with a steady rhythm. At various points along the dim beach, tiny hermit crabs, preceded by their long, distorted shadows, madly scurried to and fro. No one was there to see the small orange raft as against the night sky, it silently was rowed up to the shoreline.

As the bizarre little vessel struck ground, a tall, uniformed man eagerly jumped out of it. "So," he said with a cowboy smile, "this is Middle Earth."

"Cool it, Sharpe," spoke another man firmly, stepping out of the raft. "Radar said this area was quiet, but you never know. No shit, this is Middle Earth-and I want no horsing around. Got that?"

"Yes, Sir," spoke the soldier respectfully.

Turning back around, the commanding officer waited while everyone climbed out of the inflatable raft. Four more soldiers, their faces eager and curious; three male scientists, their faces interested but apprehensive; and one female scientist, her face fearful but resolute. When they were all out, he ordered the raft drawn in. "O.K.," he said, "deflate it. Sir?" he then asked respectfully, turning to Dr. Bennett, "what's your plan from here?"

"We're 'gonna track the probe with this," the chief scientist answered, holding up a small rectangular silver gadget. "This screen shows a satellite map-out of the surrounding area," he explained with a point of his finger. "And this little dot," he said, switching the mechanism on, "corresponds to the location of the probe."

"A homing device," assessed Major Williams.

"More or less," asserted Dr. Bennett absently, adjusting the settings of the hand-held tracking machine.

"All right, excellent," said the major turning away. Addressing his squadron of Green Barets, he spoke in an authoritative tone. "Let's get this job done, Gentlemen. We want to find this probe and get back out of here as quick as possible. Copy?"

"Copy that, Sir," answered the soldiers, folding up the deflated water raft.

Turning back to Dr. Bennett, Major Williams assumed a deferential posture. "When do we begin the search, Sir?"

"Immediately," ordered the scientist. "It's probably less likely that we would run into anyone at this hour. If we're lucky, we might be able to pinpoint the probe's location by sunrise."

"Affirmative," asserted the major. "O.K., Men," he said, addressing his troops again. "You heard Dr. Bennett's orders, let's go. We're 'gonna help the scientists cut a way through this forest. Maintain a watch for Midlings, but excepting a matter of direct defense, defer all authority to the NASA officials. When you're ready, Dr. Bennett," he said, turning his head to the scientist.

Finalizing the settings on the tracking device, Dr. Bennett glanced up. "O.K.," he breathed. "That way, at forty-five degrees southeast."

"Move out," ordered the major. Silent as mice, the five Green Baret soldiers set off after the chief scientist and his team at a brisk pace. Walking ahead, the major stayed at the side of the NASA mission commander as the party moved up the beach toward the overlaying forest. Thus, stealthily crossing the tree line beneath the light of the moon, for a priceless treasure of their realm, the first troupe of the Lost since the days of Morgoth entered into the lands of Middle Earth-four servants of science and six servants of battle.

**VII**

"Ilweth, awaken," spoke Eldoran gently, shaking his wife's shoulder. "The sun has risen-it is time to continue."

With a soft yawn, Ilweth stretched her limbs and smiled at her husband. "Good morning," she whispered.

"Good morning," smiled Eldoran in return. "Come now, we must be on our way. If we make good time, we may reach your father's house by evening."

Reaching over, Ilweth gently prodded Mirathil. "Mirathil," she spoke, "arise. It is time to go." But the little girl only briefly stirred before she turned her face into her mother's dress and remained in sleepy oblivion. With a smile, Ilweth gingerly lifted Mirathil into her arms and stood up onto her feet. "She is still so weary," she spoke, cradling her against her chest. "Let us not rouse her until later."

With a smile, Eldoran patted his daughter's fluffy golden head. "Sleep well, Little One," he whispered. Then, hoisting the leather sack onto his back, he took a step away from the gnarled tree they had rested the night under back toward the overgrown woodland path. "Come," he called to Ilweth. "The day has already broken."

Stroking Mirathil's hair, Ilweth followed after her husband. About half an hour later, they were proceeding at a comfortable rate down the shady forest trail. As they walked, Eldoran and Ilweth talked to each other of what merriment they would make upon arriving at their destination. "How pleased will my parents be when they see what a sweet little girl their granddaughter has grown into," smiled Ilweth with pride.

"Yes, indeed," agreed Eldoran cheerfully. In the next moment, however, his face was drawn with soberness. "Let us only hope though, that she does not spin one of her tales, my Lady," he remarked.

"Oh, yes," Ilweth remembered sadly. "That does not do very well, to have a child that weaves lies-but, my Lord, do you think we grow closer to understanding wherefore she does it with such determination?"

"I do not know, Ilweth," sighed Eldoran. For a moment, he was despondent; immediately after, however, he brightened his countenance. "Oh, come now," he spoke with a smile. "This is not a time for woe and worry, my Lady-we are in the course of a merry journey, and merry should our speech and faces be."

Breaking into a smile, Ilweth kissed the top of her daughter's head. "Yea," she agreed. "Let us not speak of griefs now. The day is early, and the road is yet long." Nestling her daughter close against her, she quickened her pace. With carefree spirit, the couple continued to traverse the woodland trail in merry speech and enjoyment; but neither noticed the cloud of worry which had slowly come over their daughter's face in her sleep or the subtle way in which she had begun to stir and murmur.

**VIII**

As she ducked to avoid a low tree branch which had rudely thrust itself into her path, Clarissa sighed. As ill at home as she was in the kitchen, the wilds of nature suited her even less. The last thing she had ever pictured herself doing was traipsing through an untamed area of Middle Earth with nine tireless men, her husband not the least of them. It wasn't as though she was any less anxious about the downed probe as the rest of them; it was just that she would have preferred someone else be sent to the wilderness of Middle Earth to actually look for it. But at the prospect of losing her job, here she was playing Nature Woman.

Oh well-at least the sun was up now. It had been a long, hard night making a way through a dense, interminable forest. The entire party had grown weary, though the soldiers rigidly refrained from showing it. She had a feeling that the civilian division of the team was, by this point, in a rather snappish mood, having walked all night through the brush and the thickets without ever stopping for even so much as a five-minute rest or a quick bite to eat. She was sure as hell getting fairly bent out of shape anyway. _The next time I design a space probe,_ she thought irritably, _I'm building in an automatic self-destruct mechanism that takes anything like this field day off the drawing board._

Coming up beside her husband, however, Clarissa Bennett's spirits were suddenly lifted; within the little screen of his hand-held homing device, the small red dot was beginning to all at once go crazy. "Robert!" she cried ecstatically, "it's-

"We're within one-hundred feet!" announced the chief scientist in excitement. "The readings are going berserk-the probe should be…" he paused, punching some buttons on the tracking unit, "…just up there somewhere!" he called, pointing a quick finger a little to the east of their current direction of travel. "C'mon!"

Breaking into a jog, all ten members of the recovery team eagerly took off in the designated direction. As Clarissa breathlessly ran along the tangled forest floor, careful to avoid overhanging branches and brush-concealed tree roots, she let a thankful smile cross her face. At last, they would find what they had come for and go home. It would still be a fair journey back to the beach, but it was all downhill from here.

Reaching a point a few meters ahead, however, the happy troupe suddenly stopped short. Before their eyes, the thickly set trees all at once fell away to reveal a narrow little trail, overgrown but definitely perceivable, even to a city dweller's eyes. "Shit," whispered Major Williams. "Looks like we are in inhabited territory. That thing is definitely in use. All right, raise your levels of alertness from here on out," he addressed his men.

"Look!" exclaimed Clarissa in a careful whisper. "There's the probe's film capsule!"

And sure enough it was-lying dead in the middle of the little woodland highway. Scattered around it were evidences of its crash landing. The spot where it had landed was impressed into a moderate crater, while the grass which once have must encircled it had been burned away from the impact. In the course of its plunge to the ground, it appeared also to have struck a tree, splitting it in half and knocking the top portion across the trail, while the lower half was left standing nearby as a partially blackened stump.

"All right, People, enough gawking," initiated Clarissa's husband. "Let's go get it."

He proceeded to take a step onto the path; one of the soldiers, however, suddenly reached out and gripped his arm, pulling him back. "Sir!" he tensely whispered.

Confused, the scientist turned his gaze out onto the trail; and with a gasp, he beheld a medievally garbed man and woman coming up its length, bearing a sleeping child in tow. Their faces paling, everyone immediately threw themselves to the ground, hiding from view beneath the forest brush. Dropping her head in her hands, Clarissa suppressed a moan. What the hell kind of luck was this?

As they came along the path, Eldoran suddenly halted in amazement. "Ilweth!" he cried, "look yonder-what be that?"

Blinking, his wife peered ahead. "A fallen tree?" she sighed. "I gather it must have been ill inside-unusual for the trees of Ithilien. No matter though, my Lord, it is easily overstepped."

"Nay, Ilweth!" her husband cried. "There is something else I see-hurry along, I will show you!"

With a confused tilt of her head, Ilweth sped up after Eldoran. In her haste, she did not notice how Mirathil, nestled close in her arms, had suddenly begun to toss and turn.

_No…no, don't come…Mama, Father, be safe._ Within Mirathil's head, dreams and visions were violently pounding. Squirming in her sleep, she grew more and more restless the nearer her parents drew to the fallen tree.

Upon reaching the sundered tree trunk, both Eldoran and Ilweth gasped in shock. Lying at their feet was a small metal object-round as a ball but bearing nothing of the appearance of a plaything. It was blackened as if from heat and set in the center of a gaping crater, around of which naught of green was left. "What is it, my Lord?" breathed Ilweth in amazement.

Shaking his head in astoundment, Eldoran hesitated to reply. "I do not know," he spoke slowly.

_No…_the images came louder and louder in Mirathil's mind. _No-Mama, Father, do not go, do not leave me!_

Within the brush, all the Americans had raised their eyebrows in mild surprise at the Midlings' use of readily understandable English-in the back of their minds, they had always rather pictured the Celtic-like people of Middle Earth as speaking in some strange Gallic or Saxon Age language. The fact that they had just spoken in a highly formal version of their own language was certainly unexpected and perhaps, even a bit unsettling.

But at the Midlings' sudden, curious observance of the downed probe film, the members of the Green Baret were wont to move their fingers to the triggers of their weapons. Upon their precaution, however, Clarissa immediately whirled around in alarm. "What are you doing?!" she whispered frantically. "They've got a kid with them. This is just an innocent family! Robert!" she softly pleaded, turning to her husband.

"Don't fire," the chief scientist quietly ordered. "Let's maintain a watch. If they just move on and leave it, we'll have no problem. What we don't want to do is make any unnecessary trouble. Everybody understand?"

"Yes, Sir," came the collective answer.

_No!_ screamed Mirathil inside her head. _No! Mama! Father! No, no, no!_

Maintaining a tense watch on the Midling couple, the American recovery team silently bided their time, praying that the idea would not come into the curious duo's mind to take the film and necessitate action. As they watched, however, they idly noticed the small little girl cradled gently in the woman's arms, moan in her sleep and with a sudden quick start, open up her eyes.

Drawing in a breath, Mirathil tightly clutched the front of her mother's dress. "Mama?" she whispered uneasily. Then, she realized her reality-safe and secure. Releasing a sigh of relief, she snuggled against her mother and laid her head on her shoulder, happily closing her eyes. It was only a dream. Silly dream.

Opening her sleepy eyes, Mirathil smiled; as soon as it had formed, however, the smile froze on her face. As the breeze softly rustled her hair, the hopeful contentment in her face slowly faded away into a look of perturbed apprehension. Staring in front of her, the little girl numbly blinked as a crinkled green leaf was gently carried by the wind across the path. Her young eyes widening, she shifted her gaze expectantly toward her father; sure enough, she beheld him inquisitively leaning down to the ground to pick something up. In an instant, her face went white with horror. It was real, it was happening! Gripping her mother's shoulder with her tiny hands, she threw her gaze back to the woods that bordered the trail and let out a shrill scream. "NOOO!!!!!"

Just at that moment, a long black arrow suddenly shot with a deadly swiftness from the woods beyond the shaded path. Closing her eyes, Mirathil screamed. In the next moment, her small hands were immersed in something warm and sticky. Cracking her eyelids open, she timidly peered down with a frightened swallow-gripping her mother's shoulder blades, she saw her fingers, drenched in a torrent of blood.

Her face going dead white in horror, Mirathil screamed at the top of her lungs, yanking her crimson-stained hands away in terror. In the next moment, she felt her mother slump forward onto her knees, dropping her from her arms. As she fell to the ground, Mirathil heard her father's pained cry as another black arrow, fired from the thick set woods, flew through the air to savagely pierce his flesh. Tears of heartbroken horror flooding her eyes, Mirathil opened her mouth to let out another scream-but it was silenced ere it was released by a sudden plunge into unconsciousness as with her harsh landing, her little head struck against a lodged stone on the ground.

In the next instant, four darkly garbed men rapidly emerged from the shady forest. As Mirathil's father hunched over onto his knees, however, Clarissa Bennett, in the shock and horror of the moment, involuntarily released a piercing scream. Wheeling around in surprise, the four hooded men swiftly reached for the arrows slung over their shoulders to fire them in the direction of the sound.

Immediately, however, Major Williams reacted. "Fire!" he shouted to his squadron of Green Barets. Hoisting up their automatic weapons, the five American soldiers instantly did so-all of a sudden, a deafening series of what sounded to the archers' ears rather like strange explosions violently pierced the air. Before the four archers even had time to start in surprise, however, they had all fallen like laden sacks face forward onto the ground, dead in a pool of blood.

Throwing her hands over her mouth, Clarissa gasped, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Shh," ordered the major. "It's all right-everybody keep quiet."

Her face paling in horror, Clarissa moved to jump up. "The little girl!" she cried.

Grabbing her arm, the major pulled her back down. "You can't go out there," he warned. "There might be more of them in the woods. You could be shot."

"But the little girl!" Clarissa shrilly protested, starting to tear up.

"Quiet," spoke the major sternly. "I'm sorry."

Quivering from head to toe, Clarissa sank in horror back to the ground, not even noticing as her husband laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. The poor little girl-was she alive? Was she killed like the rest? Was she hurt? Taking off her thin black glasses, the young American woman worriedly rubbed her eyes. _Those poor people,_ she thought in anguish. _That poor, poor little girl._

As the minutes crept by like hours, they waited in the brush, silent and still as the forest. When a literal hour had gone by, the major slowly stood up. Signaling to his soldiers, he cautiously ventured out onto the path. Scanning the other side of the path, out of whose murky woods the arrows had proceeded, he nodded to one of his men to retrieve the probe's film.

As the young soldier warily crossed the distance to where the spherical film capsule lay upon the ground, he glanced down and sighed. Beside the capsule lay the body of the shot Midling man, the long shaft of a cruel black arrow protruding out of his chest cavity. "Poor guy," murmured the soldier regretfully. Reaching down, he carefully took up the metal film capsule.

At that moment, however, the still Midling suddenly opened his eyes. Jerking away in surprise, the soldier waved to his commander. "Sir!" he softly called. "This guy's alive!"

Blinking in surprise, the major and two other soldiers quickly stepped over to the body of the Midling man. Gazing down, Major Williams shook his head. "I'll be damned," he spoke softly. Kneeling down, he looked into the man's eyes. "Can you hear me?" he asked.

His throat tightening in a mixture of shock and alarm, the man faintly nodded his head. Who in the name of the Valar the strangely dressed people with the bizarre metal objects in their hands standing over him were was unimportant in this fatal moment of need. Mirathil's shrilly given scream had warned him just in time of the impending danger. Jumping to the side, he had managed to avoid getting hit in the heart; instead, the arrow had lodged itself deep into his stomach area. It was unbearably painful, but it had given him just enough time-enough time to tell someone.

"Sir?" asked one of the soldiers. "Should we render aid?"

Scratching his head, the major sighed. "I don't know how much longer he's 'gonna last with a wound like that," he spoke honestly, surveying the impaled arrow.

Squeezing his eyes shut, the Midling man suddenly lifted up his hand and clutched the major's sleeve. Straining in agony, he rasped through his teeth. "My daughter," he tried brokenly.

"We'll see," spoke the major. "Reeves," he ordered, nodding his head. With a pitying countenance, the soldier turned away.

Slightly shaking his head, the Midling man tried again. "My daughter," he weakly repeated. "She-she is-separate…from us."

Coming back up to the others, Reeves knelt down to the dying Midling, a small little bundle curled up in his arms. "She's alive," he told him kindly. "It's O.K.-she's alive."

For a moment, the man's breath caught in his throat. "Mirathil!" he rasped. Straining in agony, he tried to stretch out his hand to stroke her golden hair; but then, he all at once turned back to the major, remembering his desperate message. He was nearly out of time.

"She has a-gift," he struggled to get out. "I see now-the things she saw…the stories-she warned us-I see."

Thinking the man delirious, the major sympathetically clasped the man's hand. "Don't worry," he said. "She'll be all right."

Swallowing, the man's eyes started to flutter closed. "She is-one of them…

"It'll be all right," repeated the major, seeing that the man was on Death's Doorstep. "You just rest now."

The man choked on the blood beginning to leak up from his wounded abdomen. "Rest, I will," he rasped brokenly. Slightly turning his head, he spoke one last time. "_You_-you must-keep her safe…keep her-from him." Opening his brown eyes, he beheld through blurry vision, the bloodied body of his wife lying a short distance away. His sight growing dark, Eldoran kept his gaze locked upon her still pale face. "Ilweth?" he weakly whispered. Then, the light evaporated from his eyes.

Releasing a sigh of remorse, Major Williams gently laid the man's stiff hand onto his chest. "Poor people," he spoke sadly. Glancing over at the slaughtered archers, he rose to his feet. "That's livin' in this place for you. C'mon, enough gawking," he ordered to his men. "Let's get off of this road."

"Sir?" asked Reeves, standing up with the little girl in his arms. "What about the kid?"

"She really alive?" queried Williams.

"Yes, Sir," answered the soldier.

The major breathed out thoughtfully. "Then bring her along for now," he replied.

"Sir," nodded Reeves.

Crossing the narrow trail, the major and his company reentered the brush hideaway where anxiously awaited the group of civilian scientists. "Sir," spoke Major Williams to Dr. Bennett, "we've retrieved the film."

With a sigh of relief, the chief scientist received the small metal ball from one of the soldiers. "Thank you, Major," he answered.

"What about the little girl?" inquired Clarissa Bennett worriedly. "Was she alive?"

"Alive and right here," answered Reeves, kneeling down and handing her unconscious little form into the woman's arms.

"Oh my god!" cried Clarissa, cradling her against her chest. Biting her lip, she gently brushed back a stray curl from her forehead to reveal a nasty red gash. "The poor little thing! Her parents, are they-

"Dead," confirmed Major Williams, sincerely regretful. "Hit like that, they never had a chance."

"Bastards!" hissed Clarissa though clenched teeth. "What the hell was that even about?"

"They were bandits, most likely," surmised the major. "Waiting for somebody to come along what apparently must be a commonly used road. I don't think they had anyone else stationed back in the woods-either that or they were scared off. They sure weren't expecting us to come along into their business territory." Watching the distraught young woman tenderly brush the unconscious child's hair with her dirt-stained fingers, the major sighed, his eyes softening. "Terrible thing," he said. "But in a way, lucky-if we'd come out onto that road first, we'd have been the ones shot."

Clarissa numbly blinked, releasing a little stream of tears from behind her thin black frames. She knew the major was not being insensitive-he was truly regretful about the horrible incident that had befallen the innocent Midling couple but practical enough to realize the warning and safety it had afforded them.

Tenderly stroking the unconscious little girl's light blonde hair, Clarissa Bennett sadly closed her eyes. Who was this poor child? Who had her parents been? Where had she been going? What would happen when she woke up?

Laying a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, her husband glanced with her down at the unconscious girl cradled in her arms. Releasing a sad sigh, he lifted up a finger and gently brushed it along the child's tiny, dirt-stained cheek. "Who are you, Little Girl?" he whispered.

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**O.K., I am SO SORRY about the wait for this chapter. I don't blame you if you are very ticked off with me right now. The only thing I can say is that I had four papers due in college on the same day, and I've been crazy busy, but I'll try to get the next chapter up within 1, maybe 2, weeks. Give me a break, though, my chapters are pretty generous in length.**

**Also, unless anybody cares, I have stopped writing previews for the upcoming chapters. I don't think anyone was reading them anyway. If you were and you want them back, let me know.**

O.K., now to my reviewers, if they were patient enough to still be here:

**Almost Funny: **I guess you are gone-I'll miss you!

**Lil' layah: **I don't know what happened to you-your review disappeared from the reviews page. Are you still there? I hope so, you write very in-depth reviews.

**Crow: **I fixed the chapter problem-sorry about that. The preface and prologue chapter is different now. I'm glad you think I have talent and that you like Mirathil.

**lil kawaii doom: **I fixed the chapters-Chapter 1 is different now, you better read it or you will probably get confused later on. Perfect? (blushes) I don't know about that, but thank you.

**Aztec Raven: **Thank you for the compliments on my writing style. I'm glad you think the plot is well developed-that was one of my major concerns.

**GitaMerah: **I like long stories too. Thank you for complimenting the preface. Your observation of Mirathil is very keen; she does seem like a Mary Sue at first, but then you start to realize that that quality is not necessarily an enjoyable one to have. As she grows up, I'm going to bring out in this story how having the gifts that she does, not in a fairytale but in the real world, would in actuality carry some very troubling problems with them-being an outcast is just the beginning. Being normal, in many instances, would really be the gift and the fairytale. I am glad you caught onto that. True, she is pretty eloquent for her age-but actually, I based her speech off this two year old girl I know who really speaks that grown up! She really creeps people out some times with her intelligence, and that quality seemed to fit well with Mirathil. But I will play it down some. However, she wasn't able to reach the palantir-I said that she shook the pillar it was sitting on until it fell off. As to where America comes in: if you've read this chapter, maybe you can start to figure out where I'm going with this!

**d: **Thanks for complimenting my story. I will try to keep it coming at a quicker pace.

I will try to see you in 1-2 weeks (hopefully 1).

Bye,

Eureka


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